


Concubine

by kaasknot



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: (So many politics), Animal Sacrifice, Arranged Marriage, Attempted Rape, Body Horror, Earn Your Happy Ending, Fantastic Racism, Fantastic economics, Florid prose, Gender politics, Gratuitous Norse Mythology, Infidelity, Intersex Loki, Jötunn Loki, M/M, Miscarriage, Not MCU compliant, Not comics compliant, Politics, Questionable Biology, Torture, slowest of slow burns, spousal abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:44:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 139,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5639653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki Laufeyjarson is the middle prince of Jötunheim: short, weak, and forgotten. He is a lesser son, and destined, as all lesser sons are, to marry. Loki knows this. He is prepared to do his duty. But he is not prepared for his mother to wed him to Thor Odinsson, the scourge of Jötunheim; neither is he prepared for the welter of Asgardian politics that awaits him. Weaving peace isn't so easy as it seems...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I BSed my way through a bit of Old Norse/Icelandic throughout. If you happen to know Old Norse/Icelandic and I embarrass myself, feel free to drop me a note and I'll fix it (putting it out there now: I've referred to the singular Æsir as "ás," because by my life I could not take "áss" seriously).
> 
> If soundtracks are your thing, I listened to two Wardruna albums—"Yggdrasil" and "Gap Var Ginnunga"—basically on repeat for this whole fic.
> 
> Thanks to trillgutterbug for the vehement, borderline rabid cheerleading.

The spring trade winds had set the ice to groaning the day Loki of Jötunheim learned he was to wed the Crown-Prince of Asgard. His mother, Laufey, First Scion of Jötunheim, passed the news in his usual abrupt manner, and Loki had little choice but to obey.

He was at his magic when the summons came, tucked in his workshop high beneath the eaves of an abandoned tower. He dismissed the servant, stifling his sudden rush of fear, and took stock. To his knowledge, he had neither said nor done anything in the past week to enrage his liege, but such things could be difficult to predict. Absent any other reason, Loki supposed it was further harassment for his “antagonizing, needlessly attention-grabbing, and shameful” comportment. He sighed and went to see what his mother wanted.

For the sake of his experiments he wore an old, ragged kilt, stained and torn, and none of his jewels. It was not fit apparel to see a king—but then, Loki was not a fit prince. He strode with his head held high, bracing himself with studied arrogance, and strove against his nerves. The throne guards opened the doors at his approach. Beyond, Laufey awaited, a shadow in the dimness. Loki came to meet him.

Laufey pursed his lips in disapproval at his second son’s appearance. Loki savored it. He had long ago given up trying to please his mother. It would be easier for him to grow six feet upwards than it would be for Laufey to stoop to embrace his son, and at least by needling him Loki was guaranteed a reaction. His hair, caught in a simple plait down his back, seemed to grow heavier beneath his mother’s regard. He twitched it over his shoulder as he made his obeisance, draping it across his chest where it would be impossible to miss.

"You are full-grown, now," Laufey said, paying no mind to Loki’s insolence. "It is time you considered marriage."

Loki’s jaw dropped, all his clever schemes chased away. "Marriage?"

"Yes, marriage." His mother snorted in irritation. "Come now, child, surely you did not expect to stay unwed for the duration of your otherwise useless life?"

Loki gritted his teeth. He had expected no such thing, not with his particular political advantage, but to have it come so soon... "No, Honored Mother. I merely wonder at the identity of my intended, for to my knowledge there are no compatible matches available."

The smile that spread over Laufey's craggy face was narrow and sharp. Loki had perfected one just like it, peering into a mirror until he succeeded in making his blood run cold. "Not among our allies, that is true—not even among our Elding cousins. But there are more possible unions than those, child."

"I am not a child," Loki said, but despite himself he was curious. It was not often, these days, that Laufey caught the better of him.

"Indeed, not,” Laufey replied, but his smile vanished into seriousness. "Which is why I have accepted Asgard's offer to discuss your betrothal to his eldest son and heir."

Once more Loki was rendered breathless with disbelief. "Asgard! You mean to wed me to Thor?"

"The same. The... Allfather is willing to sue for peace, the great fool, on condition of marriage. At least among the Æsir your runty stature will be no obstacle."

Silence echoed between them, and Loki mustered himself. "Have I so wronged you, that you would cast me aside, thus?"

Laufey's face was impassive. _Your presence wrongs me,_ he didn’t have to say.

Loki hid his hurt behind a withering scowl. It was an old pain, a deep pain, one he had known since he had asked his nurse why Mother didn't love him, and he had answered, "Because you are tiny, and not fit to be a prince." It was little more than simple truth, for Loki could never rule Jötunheim, land of the giants—but it had stung no less, for it fell on innocent, childish ears.

He drew himself up, stiffening his spine with haughty pride. "I assume I am to be given no choice in the matter?"

"Absolutely not," Laufey snapped, his voice ringing through the icy hall. "This may be our chance to regain the Casket of our Foremothers, and you will neither squirm from nor sabotage the proceedings."

A sinking feeling settled over Loki's heart. He could almost feel the Norns clasp their shackles about his wrists. He been an infant when Odin Bölverker had taken the Casket of Ancient Winters from the Temple, no more than three days old. It had been his birth that weakened his mother, caused him to misstep and fall before the Yggr's spear—at least, that is what Helblindi said.

Helblindi also said Jötunheim had been great, once. It had taken Loki many years to understand the dark looks his older brother gave him at those times.

Loki might not have understood the depth of Jötunheim's descent, but he understood he couldn't deny him this chance. He sneered. How elegant a snare his mother had constructed.

"Then I await your pleasure, Laufey-King," he said, and bowed. He didn't bother to wait for a dismissal.

"Show your horns, child, when we bargain the handsal," Laufey called to his retreating back. "We don't need those pink bastards thinking you're less of a jötunn than you already are."

Loki's shoulders knotted beneath his mother’s scornful gaze, and he burst out the doors into the hall beyond. Damn Laufey, anyway.

The icy halls of Útgard's keep were silent. It was a clear day, warming to the lukewarm touch of the sun, and the bulk of Laufey's Court was away, enjoying the respite from bitter cold. Loki was glad for it. He all but ran for the safety of his rooms, through shadowed halls and wan pools of sunlight, past murals and prayers etched into the very ice of which the walls were made. Útgard was the pinnacle of Hrímthursar architecture, but Loki, not for the first time, was blind to it.

Little Býleist was waiting for him in his rooms. "Little” was relative; Loki's younger brother topped him by a full head. He was, however, four centuries younger, and thus fully warranted every diminutive an older brother could conjure to his hand.

"What do you want," Loki snapped.

"I heard a guard say you were getting married," Býleist replied. "Is it true?"

Loki huffed. "It is true Mother hopes to arrange a betrothal."

Býleist's brow wrinkled. "Does that not mean the same thing?"

Loki turned to regard his little brother. He was broad-faced and heavy-browed, with none of the grace Fárbauti had bestowed upon Laufey's elder sons. There was too much of his mother in Býleist for him to be called beautiful. "No, Little Bee, it does not." He hadn't the heart to explain further.

"Oh." Býleist squirmed a moment more, stewing in obvious childish excitement before he couldn't contain it any longer. "Does this mean you're marrying Skadi? I don't like him. He's mean."

"I'm mean," Loki said, avoiding the question.

"Yes, but you're nice to me. Is Skadi to be your spouse?"

Loki sighed, long and heavy. "No, Býleist, he is not. And my intended will not be my spouse, I will be his."

Býleist's eyes grew large. "But... But you are Third Scion! How can you be wed to him instead of him to you!"

There were times Loki envied his younger brother's innocence. Asgard would never permit the son of their fiercest enemies to be the dominant spouse. He tugged Býleist over to the bed, and urged him to sit that Loki might look him in the eyes. "A Scion is, first and foremost, the servant of his people, Býleist," he said. "It is our duty as Scions of the House of Ymir to honor the needs of our people before our own. That includes matters of matrimony."

"But why are you lesser! There are no families greater than ours."

Loki's lips curled up in a bitter smile. "Mine is a special case, little one."

Býleist bowed his head. "It is because you are short."

"Yes." It was not the whole truth, but it would do.

A thought came to his brother then, plain to see across his expressive face, and Loki braced himself. "Does this mean you are leaving Útgard?"

Loki's heart broke. "Oh, Little Bee," he said. "There is no guarantee the negotiations will be successful, but if they are, then yes, I will be leaving the Heart of Ice."

"You'll be leaving _Jötunheim!_ " Loki winced, his ears ringing, and caught himself on his hands when Býleist knocked him over in his panicked rush for the door.

"Býleist!" Loki's voice was strong, if no other part of him was. "Stop right where you are."

His brother turned, fear bright in his young eyes. "But Mother can't send you away! Who will play with me, if you go? You talk to me! No one else but Nurse does, and he's boring!"

Loki pushed himself to his feet, brushing dust from his arms and kilt. He swallowed his pained hiss. "Mother will not be moved on this one, Little Bee." He took Býleist's large hand in his own two, curling in his brother's fingers into a fist and wrapping his hands around it as far as they could spread. "This marriage, should it prove successful, may well return the Casket of Ancient Winters to Jötunn hands. You remember what I told you of the Casket?" Býleist nodded. "Then you know how vital it is our people regain it. I would... I would sacrifice far more, for so great a return."

Býleist sniffled. "I hope you aren't betrothed," he said. "I don't care about the Casket. I want you to stay."

"As do I, Little Bee, but we may not have a choice."

Býleist seized Loki in an embrace that pulled his feet from the floor. Loki didn't protest. He wiped his brother's tears and ignored the groaning in his ribs, and if he was more patient with Býleist's games that afternoon, all the better to put his mind from his own trials.

***

The negotiations took place on neutral territory. Asgard and Jötunheim were out of the question—both parties were far too combative to risk diplomacy in their respective Realms, and neither was willing to yield the advantage.

The search for the proper hosts was delicately done and lengthy, for both nations had a multitude of trade contacts and allies anathema to the other. Vanaheim was far too intertwined with Asgard, and Frey and Freyja, noted issue of that Realm, were also noted slayers of Elding-kind. Múspelheim, too, was out of the question. Niflheim was removed due to its awkward primordial connection to the Jötnar (no ás was willing to admit his race was younger than a jötunn's), and Midgard carefully ignored.

Of the last three, Álfheim was the eventual selection. The Light Elves were a merchant race as well as master negotiators, and their contacts with both Asgard and Jötunheim were so labyrinthine as to make parsing out which Realm had the greater claim nigh impossible to reckon.

Laufey's contingent arrived first. They emerged from the Dwarven Waygate under a pavilion large enough to accommodate even the tallest potential traveler, and beyond the pillars that supported the roof Loki could see sheets of monsoon rain pouring down. Thick moisture beaded up against his frost-chilled clothes. He shuddered at so extravagant a display of liquid wealth. There was water on Jötunheim, but it was either frozen or brine, and required labor and precious resources to extract. 

The Ljósálfar who met them were stoic, their formal regalia crushingly bright to Loki's ice-dark eyes. He stared. He had known the elves of this region were short, but Loki, accustomed to the great heights of the Jötnar, goggled. They were a good two heads shorter even than himself, and tattoos stood out upon their dusky cheeks.

The swarthiest of the lot stepped to the fore. "I am Elder Ota," he said. "I will lead the negotiations. If you would follow me." He stepped off the edge of the pavilion into the rain-washed road, and all of the Jötnar, even their king, hesitated. Elder Ota paused to wait, his hands clasped before him.

Loki huffed. There was no need to drag the proceedings out longer than needed. Surely they wouldn't melt, even in this abundance of water. He pushed past his guard and into the deluge.

It was many things, but for a small mercy at least it was cool. The water slammed against his shoulders and head, and his clothes were soaked through in a matter of seconds, but his mother, unwilling to let his son show him up, stepped next, and the rest of the entourage followed. Laufey pushed past to take the lead, and Loki fell back to his guards. He hunched his shoulders against the miserable, dragging wet and tightened his belt, lest the weight of the water pull his kilt from his hips. The stink of wet fur and the faint whiff of tanning rose from the pelts on his shoulders.

The walk was short. The road wove through groves of impossibly large trees, their trunks straight and smooth and hung with a ransom of greenery. Loki couldn't help gawking as they walked, marveling at the brilliant plumage of the birds that flew past. How much wealthier must Asgard be, if one of their protectorates possessed such riches?

 _Perhaps that is **why** Álfheim is a protectorate,_ Loki thought wryly.

Their Ljósálfar escorts led them to another pavilion, alike the first in that it was little more than a roof supported by slender poles, but this bore an air of impermanence the first had not. They neared, and Loki saw the roof was thatched from strangely shredded leaves, each longer than he was tall. He had thought himself inured to shock at this world, but for all he had read, the sight of palm leaves still caused his eyes to widen. He longed to go to them, to see the tree that produced them, to learn the method that formed, from so porous a material as these ragged leaves, a sound roof—but Laufey was already irritable, and if he wished to survive these negotiations without getting scolded or worse, Loki knew he had best restrain his urge to interrogate their hosts.

The pavilion held little more than table and chairs, but it brought them out of the rain. Loki squeezed water from his braid, and tried to wring as much as he could from his kilt, but he could see already that it would be a long time before he dried completely. All around him his fellow Jötnar grimaced at the damp. The moisture clung to Loki's skin and pressed against his nose and mouth. He fought to maintain his impassive expression.

The Jötnar barely had time to put themselves to rights when a screaming roar shook the air, overtaking the thunder of rain on the roof. Light flared, at first blinding white but as Loki blinked away his reflexive tears, he saw myriad colors caged within, an entire rainbow twined together in a column that struck down with titanic force. He felt the earth tremble beneath his feet. Figures appeared in the glare, misshapen and black against their harsh backlighting, and as suddenly as the phenomenon had appeared it vanished—leaving a party of armored warriors in its wake.

The Æsir.

Their grand entrance was lessened, somewhat, by the rain that soaked them through seconds later. Loki comforted himself with the knowledge that even the mighty Bifröst couldn't unbalance the scales when it came to wet misery. His guards closed ranks around him, protecting him from the threat of the Enemy, and Loki rolled his eyes. He pushed ineffectually against one guard's side, trying to see, but he refused to budge.

"Allfather," he heard his mother say. "You look weary." The delivery was masterful—there was respect, as demanded by Jötunheim's conqueror, but so, too, was there a subtle edge of derision. Jötunheim may bow, but he was not yet broken.

"Laufey. Where is your son?"

"He is here. This is yours, I take it?"

There was a sullen weight in the air, and Loki smirked to know he was not the only one underwhelmed by the match at hand. "This is Thor, my eldest."

Laufey must have made some motion, for the guards surrounding Loki parted, and he found himself bared to the curious eyes of the Æsir. He stood straight and tall. He knew how he looked: bedraggled, soaked; but he had spent a great deal of time sculpting the perfect appearance for this meeting, and he had no doubt he was at his finest.

His horns were out, as his mother had demanded. Shapeshifting was rare, among the Jötnar, but not unheard of; and while Loki was secretly proud of the graceful, spiralling horns that crowned his head, he shifted them away to annoy Laufey. Now, however, they were present, and Loki had polished them until they gleamed. He wore his second-best kilt, his finest cape—navy in the overbearing light of Álfheim—and the pelts of two foxes he had hunted himself padded his shoulders. He was, as far as he could achieve, the picture of Jötunn martial beauty.

He stared at the Æsir. He had known they were called pink for a reason, but hearing and seeing were two different things. The Ljósálfar were less strange to him, for while they were tiny even to Loki, and their skin black as the fertile mud beneath their feet, its darkness was familiar. They came to Jötunheim regularly through the Ways to trade. Loki had seen them before. These Asgardians, however, Loki had never seen, not even the messengers, for his mother kept him sequestered from them. Their hides were maggot-pale, and so thin their blood showed through on their cheeks. More, they were hairy. Jötnar were not given to hair, and what they grew more often than not they shaved away. These creatures let it run rampant not only on their heads, which Loki couldn't fault, but also on their faces. Great swathes of coarse fur coated their cheeks, and by the careful braids some had worked it into, they prided themselves on its growth. Loki's lip curled.

A voice broke out from the massed ranks of Asgard. "But he is short!" Loki flushed, pinpointing the owner of that voice and staring daggers at him. The speaker stood beside the Allfather, clad in bloody red and bearing a hammer that swung heavy from his belt.

"Would you rather wed a giant in truth? I am sure we could arrange such a match if you prefer." Odin's tone was caustic and exasperated. Loki's nostrils flared at his implied lack.

This, then, was the scourge of Loki's people, and his future betrothed. He looked upon Thor for the first time. His hair was gold, his eyes an eerie blue, and his armor was polished to high gleam. Those blue eyes glared at Loki, and blood suffused the Odinsson’s hairy, white cheeks. Loki raised his chin in arrogant defiance.

The fates were laughing at him. He was sure of it.

***

A bead of condensation trickled down one of Loki’s horns, slipping over its ridges and spirals before disappearing in his hair. He found himself envying those jötunns with shaved scalps, for his hair, even wrapped in a bun and off his neck, seemed determined to trap as much heat and moisture as possible and smother him with it. He resisted the urge to scratch.

The rains had eased during the night, leaving only mud and suffocating humidity in their wake. Beyond the pavilion’s edge, steam rose from the soggy earth, rising in wispy tendrils to greet the sun. It was making a fair attempt to shine through the clouds; no doubt it was dim by Ljósálfar standards, but already it was brighter than even the clearest day on Jötunheim. The Light Elves were well named. He had learned from one of Elder Ota’s aides that the equatorial region of Álfheim was home to vast sand deserts, blasted wastelands of heat and sun. Loki could only imagine. The Eldjötnar would probably find it a comfort over this humidity and rain. Loki amused himself with the mental image of a fire giant in the middle of a monsoon shower, before the call to order drew his attention back to the negotiation table.

It was the first day of bargaining. The Jötnar and the Æsir were lined on either side of the pavilion, with the Elves given the undesirable no man's land in the middle. Elder Ota stood in the center of his contingent, short and grey-haired and sturdy. To one side sat an elf with pen and paper, transcribing every word spoken; to his other sat an elf with no discernable use but for that of runner. Ota was speaking, welcoming both parties and expressing his hope for a favorable outcome.

“There are but three rules that govern the table,” he said, his stentorian voice undiminished by his advanced age. “One: there will be no bloodshed. Failure to comply with this rule will result in the immediate expulsion of the culpable party. Two: there will be no use of proscribed insults. Use of these insults will result in the expulsion of the culpable party. Three: the mediators are not to be harassed during the proceedings. Harassment will result in expulsion. Are these rules understood?”

Both parties indicated their complicity, and Laufey and Odin seated themselves, surrounded by their respective parties. There was a moment of silence. Loki looked across the table to where Thor sat. He looked as nervous as Loki felt. Loki slid his eyes away from his potential intended and eyed the Allfather.

“We have come to bargain the handsal between my son and yours,” Odin began. “We both understand the significance of this gesture; let us leave the formalities and go straight to the point. Laufey, you desire as bride-price the return of the Casket of Ancient Winters. The purpose of these negotiations is to determine whether suitable compensation can be met to balance out the exchange of this artifact. Is this correct?”

Laufey inclined his head. “It is.”

“Good. I assume you are aware that the Eldjötunns have begun to press against the borders of Asgardian space?”

“I am aware, yes.” Laufey’s eyes narrowed. Loki felt a similar suspicion rise in him. The enmity between Asgard and the Fire Giants was legendary. The whole of the Tree watched that border, half in fear, half in anticipation—but only a fool would interfere.

“My counter-offer, then, is that as a part of Loki’s dowry Asgard be given two things. One: the mining rights to Jötunheim’s third moon.”

Loki raised a brow. The third moon was barren, lifeless; it held, however, vast and rich deposits of ore and gems. Enough, perhaps, to arm and fund an army. Laufey remained impassive. “And the second?”

Odin leaned forward in his seat. “I want an understanding that the Hrímthursar will not ally with the Eldjötnar should the latter move to attack Asgard.”

A ripple of shock ran through the jötunns. “Out of the question,” Laufey snapped. “The Eldjötnar are our cousins, however distant; the friendship between our Realms has been inviolate for millennia. You would have us break that for the sake of a mere wedding?”

“We both know this is no mere wedding. And those are my conditions for exchange of the Casket.”

Loki glared at the Allfather. He would permit the restoration of Jötunheim’s magic for no less than the price of Jötunheim’s allies. The choice was Laufey’s: did he wish to watch in safety as his realm faded, until his people were little more than a shadow of their former glory? Or would he destabilize their political security for the sake of a renewed heartbeat?

“We will proceed, for the sake of these negotiations, as though I have agreed to your terms,” Laufey finally said. “However, I want it absolutely clear that I have not yet accepted them. That decision remains to be made. It is a hard thing you ask of our people, Storm Father.”

“Sacrifice is a heavy burden,” Odin replied, his face as unreadable as Laufey’s. His son, however, was less skilled at blanking his expression. His pleasure at even this small concession was nauseating. Loki turned his gaze out to the forest, unable to stomach the sight of Thor’s smug pride any longer.

Elder Ota spoke. “Do you have further requests of Laufey before we turn to his counter?”

Odin shifted his armored bulk. All the Æsir wore full armor, despite the stifling humidity. The Jötnar had at least the sense to wear their lightest garments; Loki would have stripped down to his smalls, had he the choice. He watched the Æsir sweat into their beards.

“Yes, there is one more condition I would lay on the match. I have but one son of marriageable age, while you have two; what political matches I can hope to make are, therefore, constrained. I would request that Loki be connected to Thor as concubine, not full wife.”

Loki whipped his head around to stare at the Allfather in shock. Thor, too, looked to his father with wide eyes. Laufey, however, shot up from his seat. “You would take our mineral wealth, our political strength, and then belittle my son with mere concubinage? What game do you play, Bölverker?”

Odin rose to meet Laufey’s accusation. “I seek only the benefit of my realm and my people,” he said calmly. “It is in the interest of my son’s future reign that I request this. He must be allowed to wed others. This is not a slight against your son, I assure you.”

“I would have more need of political matches than you, were I to agree to your conditions,” Laufey said, lip curling. “My heir’s marital status will be lowered, if his brother is no more than a concubine. If I cannot find a decent match for the future ruler of Jötunheim, then what point is there in making this one?”

“Jötunheim’s strength and might will be restored with your Casket. I’m sure that will lure potential suitors.”

Laufey went still at the mention of the Casket. Loki watched him, breathless.

Elder Ota interceded. “Perhaps it would be wise to adjourn for the day. We will reconvene tomorrow at the same time, after both parties have had time to consider the proposals.”

There was a heartbeat of silence, wherein the tableau was preserved: two kings, one dwarfed by the other but greater in strength despite, locked in a mute battle of wills across the barren expanse of the negotiating table. Then Laufey broke it, turning on his heel to stride out of the pavilion. Loki rose with the rest of the advisors, trailing out into the watery sunshine in his wake. Thjazi, Laufey’s senior advisor, clapped him on the shoulder as they walked. “Never fear, Prince,” he said. “Your mother will fight hard for you.”

Loki shrugged off his hand. “I am sure my mother will do whatever benefits him the most.” He increased his pace to pull ahead of the old windbag.

He pondered the Allfather’s conditions all the way back to their accommodations. They were precise in their extraction of the most benefit from Jötunheim while it was still under Asgard’s direct influence. Sudden conviction filled him, and he hurried to catch up to Laufey’s retreating back.

“Honored Mother, I would speak with you,” he said, struggling to match Laufey’s long stride.

Laufey cast him a sharp glance. “Have an opinion, do you?”

“One that perhaps might help you make your decision.”

Laufey slowed. Around them, their entourage caught up; Laufey waved them onward. He turned back to Loki. “Speak your piece.”

Loki swallowed. “Accept the conditions,” he said. “Spin my unfavorable match however you wish; I am a shame to the family, a poor influence on Býleist, my leaving Útgard raised the status of everyone left behind; whatever you need to match Helblindi well. The Allfather is right: we need the Casket.”

Laufey raised a brow. “You want me to publicly condemn you behind your back?”

“If it helps, yes.”

“That, child, is why you will not be a king. One cannot damn the ties of kinship, absent hard proof, without being seen as a betrayer in the eyes of potential allies. That would do no more benefit to our people than rejecting the Yggr’s offer.”

“Do as you see fit, then,” Loki replied. “Only accept the offer. Look at our position! He has all the power of the match, and none of our need to see it succeed. He can decide half an hour from now that, commission to the Elves or no, he would as soon wash his hands of this matter and return to Asgard, his son unwed, and be no worse off than before. He can afford to drive a hard bargain; we cannot.”

Laufey stared down at his second son. Loki fought the urge to press further. His mother would take what those around him said and make up his own mind, and there was little point in trying to force the issue. He could only hope Laufey was willing to listen.

He spoke, a single brow raised. “Do you so dearly wish to marry Thor? The Sorrow Bringer?”

Loki spat upon the damp, leaf-littered earth. “No. But I will do my duty. Let me weave peace for you, and I swear I will do my best to move Asgard toward a stronger alliance with Jötunheim, so that the loss of our Elding cousins’ goodwill will not be as great a calamity.”

The expression that came over Laufey’s face was an unfamiliar one. “You are like your father,” he said, and Loki stood still, uncertain how to react. Laufey stared at him a while longer, then said, “I will consider your opinion.” With that, he walked toward the cluster of airy, stilted houses sheltering the Jötunn delegation. Loki stood behind, staring after him, off-balance and confused.

Eventually, he followed.

***

Loki sat in his hammock and watched the afternoon rains pour down. It was their last day in this Kinforsaken, soggy Realm, and soon he would be back home to the familiar, icy deserts of Jötunheim.

It would not be a long stay.

Laufey had agreed to the Allfather's terms, in the end. It had been inevitable. Loki knew the strength of Jötunheim was failing; what good was upholding the bonds of kinship if there were none left to uphold them?

Loki consoled himself that, in the long view, this match would more than likely have little lasting impact. Both the Jötnar and the Æsir were long-lived races, and while change did happen, it happened slowly. There would be an outcry among their Elding cousins, and they would condemn the Hrímthursar as craven and weak, but it would pass, for Múspelheim knew what it was to be crushed beneath Asgard's boot.

Loki reached a hand to catch the rivulet of water running down from the eaves. It was pleasant against his skin, washing away the sticky heat of the air.

He would have to tell Býleist. No one else would be able to tell him the news without bungling it up, and Loki would have his brother hopeful rather than in despairing tears. He flexed his magic, and the handful of water in his hand turned to ice. It was sluggish, so far from the chill of Jötunheim, but Loki could recall that sweet bite well enough to conjure a bit of frost. He popped it in his mouth, savoring the taste of cold against his tongue.

His betrothed was a feckless child, from what he had seen. How he had become so feared a warrior was truly a mystery. It would be a trial, to be connected with such a man—yet it was his duty, and Loki would uphold it. He grimaced. How fitting that he, the lying thorn in his mother's side, should be forced to set aside his pranks and plotting and deal straight.

The rain came down, and Loki couldn't shake the feeling it came down for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few points of interest:
> 
> I'm using "Jötunn/Jötnar" to indicate all giants, whether frost, fire, rock, or other, but Old Norse uses the words jötnar, risar, and thursar more or less interchangeably. Thus, "Hrímthurs/Hrímthursar" means "rime/frost giant," and "Eldjötunn/Eldjötnar" means "fire giant." I'm also calling the fire giants "eldings," which is sort of like calling them firelings.
> 
> There are three kinds of "elf" in Norse mythology: the light elves, ljósálfar; the dark elves, dökkálfar; and the black elves, svartálfar. If we're being technical the dark elves and the black elves are probably the same critter, but for the sake of this fic i'm calling the dark elves dwarves and the black elves the drow-like beasties we saw in Thor 2.
> 
> "Odin Bölverker”/“the Yggr": basically this is the frost giants being salty and calling Odin mean names. The first means "bane-wreaker" and the second means "terrible one" (and is where we get the name Yggdrasil from: "the terrible one's steed"). They are both Actualfax names of Odin.
> 
> "Býleistr" means "Lightning-bee" in Old Norse. That is all.


	2. Chapter 2

Loki spent the next weeks in a fog. All around him the wedding preparations went on apace: weavers coaxed silk-spinning spiders to produce their precious golden thread; an army of hunters were deployed to track a white bear, as was traditional—a juvenile, by special request, so as not to swamp the miniature prince with a full-grown pelt; and, most notably, metallurgists the Realm over flocked to Útgard to forge the jewels and weapons that would accompany the Third Scion of Jötunheim to Asgard.

The bulk of the handsal pledge was put toward Loki’s dowry, for Laufey, anticipating far greater return, spared no expense. Nevertheless, the exact degree of Loki’s relative status had been settled during the negotiations and Loki, as he watched a jeweler meticulously judging the rubies that would grace his future bridal finery, pondered how much his mother resented even this much expenditure upon him.

He supposed he was being unjust. Laufey had never been effusive, not even to Helblindi and Býleist, and Loki did little to encourage his affection. It was possible he dreaded the day Loki would leave Jötunheim, never to return, and drove the jewelers to such heights of precision to ensure the Asgardians knew precisely Loki’s worth. It was possible.

Loki cursed him daily, all the same. He cursed him when forced to reveal his horns for the fitting; he wished ill-health upon him as the tailor draped him in diaphanous splendor. He cursed out loud when the nomads’ piercers came, preparing his body to hold his dowry. Most of all, he cursed Laufey Nálsson for the endless lessons in Asgardian culture, etiquette, and anatomy—though despite himself the last was fascinating. The Æsir were a duosexual species, one that had managed to evolve past protozoa and lower life forms into full sentience. Loki shook his head, bewildered. It seemed inefficient in the extreme. He cursed Laufey for wedding him to so mutated a species.

Worse, the bustle never ceased, whirling about him without thought for his wishes, for his wishes did not matter. The marriage was fast becoming a sign of hope for the people: the noble second son, sacrificing himself for the betterment of the Hrímthursar. Loki was becoming a folk hero, and his opinion on the subject was irrelevant.

Of all his family, only Býleist was also displeased. He pouted when Loki had to leave for fittings or meetings, and threw screaming fits when their mother came to see him, one of which Loki had been witness to, and still bore the bruises from. He began to avoid his younger brother out of concern for Býleist’s worsening behavior and for the sake of his own limbs. 

Denied the sanctuary of his chambers as servants packed, unpacked, and repacked his belongings, he took to wandering the halls of Útgard, hunting down back corridors for the hidey-holes of his childhood. When he wasn’t among the craftsmen, tutors, or his mother, he was tucked in a forgotten crevice, with only a book and a magelight for company.

It was in such a place that Skadi found him, curled in the window seat of an unused ambassadorial stateroom.

“Loki,” he said. “The First Scion is looking for you.”

Loki turned from the icy vista beyond. Skadi stood in the doorway, slim and supple as an ice otter. The shadows of his pronged horns leaned long on the doorway. “Since when have you started whoring yourself to my mother?”

Skadi’s nostrils flared. “Since you agreed to wed the Sorrow Bringer, and decided you had no time for me.”

Loki scowled and slammed his book closed. “I agreed to nothing. There was no choice. And as for you,” he glared daggers at the intruder on his solitude, “We fuck, Skadi, it goes no further.”

Skadi raised one delicately arched eyebrow, eyes flashing. "Then would the Savior of Jötunheim care for another quick fuck, if he’s not too busy fucking over his mother?"

Accident or design (Loki discounted neither) had placed Skadi in the downspout of sunshine from a skylight, and it transformed him from merely beautiful to ethereal. His skin was fairer than any other jötunn Loki had seen, the softest blue of a glacier before it shaded to the white of surface ice, and his own blood washed it lavender. It set off the burgundy of his eyes to stunning contrast.

There was a certain set that lusted after runts. Part of it was due to their rarity; more of it was due to their size. Loki has lost count of the poems that had been written about Skadi Thjazisson, and what for him was a flaw—his lowly height—Skadi had made into an asset. Loki was too sharp, and moreover too noble, to be lusted after openly. But Skadi, radiant, circumspect Skadi—a goodly portion of Laufey’s court yearned for him to warm their beds.

Loki wasn’t inclined toward fragility in his partners, but to have something others wanted and to hold it out of their reach... His cock twitched at the offer. There wasn't much between them but sex, but it was good sex. He unfolded his legs and swung them over the edge of the window seat, setting his book aside. He stood, his feet sinking into the rich pile of the carpet, woven from the finest wools of the southern continent, and stalked toward his lover. Skadi watched him, his eyes impassive; Loki didn’t care. He reached for Skadi, stroking his hands over his naked scalp, and kissed him. He tasted of wine and lifrarpylsa.

“Will you miss me, Skadi? Will you miss _us_?”

Skadi snarled and tackled him, dragging him to the floor before covering his body with his own, and stealing Loki’s breath with hungry kisses. Loki laughed through the kiss. “I guess that’s a yes,” he said, breaking away. The rush of Skadi’s anger swelled his cock from its sheath, pushing it out from his body, and Skadi seized it in reply. Loki twisted in his grip, hissing and wincing at the friction, rough despite his body’s natural lubrication. Skadi ran his tongue over Loki’s neck, hitting all his most sensitive points one by one, playing his body’s responses like a old, familiar instrument. Loki gasped and arched and came almost before he realized he was nearing his peak. He shook with aftershocks, splayed half-undressed before Skadi’s stony regard, and heaved a breathless chuckle.

“I think the question is,” Skadi said, wiping his hand off on the carpet, “will _you_ miss _me_.”

Loki pushed himself upright, back into Skadi’s personal space. He ran a line of kisses down his shoulder. “How could I possibly do otherwise?” he said. “Our interactions are always so… stimulating.” He bit down with his teeth. “Now, I think we can agree that that was altogether too fast, so let’s try that again, shall we?” Skadi shivered, and Loki smiled his mother’s sharp smile.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in that stateroom, moving from one position to the next, slipping into a doze only to wake and wring further orgasms from their bodies. It was lazy; it was angry; it was gentle and frenzied. Gradually Loki felt his untapped frustration leaching out, as of a pressure valve opened to release steam. Sunset found them perched on the edge of the window seat, Skadi nestled in Loki’s lap, both of them bathed in the fading light of the sun and casting their shadows across the no-longer-pristine rug.

"Will you miss me, Skadi?" Loki purred, twisting his hips. “Truly?” Skadi whimpered, a hoarse, quiet groan, and clenched down on Loki's cock. "Shh, shh," Loki soothed, running a hand up and down Skadi's twitching stomach. He kissed the skin behind his ear, then nipped his earlobe. Skadi arched back against him, fine tremors rippling through his limbs.

"Please..."

"Of course. But first, answer the question." He nudged Skadi's thighs wider with his knees, forcing him farther down on his cock, and Loki savored the shuddering breath against his ear.

"Yessss," Skadi hissed, hips jerking. Loki grinned viciously. He nipped the shoulder before him. Skadi cried out, hitching himself up against Loki's hold before sinking back down, and it was Loki's turn to hiss. He let go of Skadi's throat and seized his hips, stilling him in his lap.

"None of that, now," he ground out. "We're following my rules, remember?"

Skadi nodded, boneless against Loki's chest. "Yes. I-I'm sorry, Loki. Please, I..."

"Please, what?" He fought back the pressure low in his stomach, the push to let go and thrust, and reached up to twist one of Skadi's nipples instead.

"Touch me, please touch me!" Skadi nearly sobbed. His voice was high and taut. Loki had a sudden vision of what they must look like, were someone to walk in the door: both of them, naked, slick and writhing, limned by the sun and with the join of their bodies wantonly displayed. Loki shivered, his cock twitching.

"As you wish." He trailed the tips of his fingers down Skadi's chest, light as falling snow, and slipped over the head of Skadi's cock to feather his fingers along the shaft. Skadi did sob at that, a dry, choked moan that left him trembling and Loki scrabbling for his control. A flush of wetness between Loki's thighs joined the slick mess of their commingled fluids, and he couldn't stop his own breath from shuddering out of him. He licked up the line of Skadi's throat, tasting brine and smelling ice fields and musk.

"Loki!"

He took mercy on him and took up his flushed, swollen cock in his fist. Skadi went rigid, one hand fumbling for Loki's and the other scrabbling back to clutch at Loki's side, and Loki allowed himself to thrust up into his tight heat with all the force he had held back. Skadi grunted into the still air.

Loki drew back and thrust again, and the lewd slap of their flesh was the very sweetest sound. He felt the tide rising in him, the heat spreading outwards, and his fingers spasmed around Skadi's cock. He reined himself back once more, brow tight with concentration, and focused on fucking Skadi until he drove all thoughts out of his lover's head, and his own, as well.

He lost track of how long they worked together, the slippery elision of their bodies sending coils of stinging, heavy pleasure up Loki's spine. It was Skadi who broke first, spending what left he had to give over Loki's fist with a broken cry, and Loki followed soon after, the vise-grip of Skadi's cunt too hard to fight. They collapsed back into the window well in a sweaty, come-smeared tangle of limbs.

“You know,” Skadi said conversationally, despite his breathlessness, “if you didn’t want to leave you could have just said, you didn’t need to take it out on me.” He shifted himself into a more comfortable position, wincing.

Loki sighed, flopping his arm out to pat Skadi on the stomach. “I really, very don’t want to leave.”

Skadi chuckled, then sobered. “Your mother actually was looking for you.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“Do you think he’ll be angry?”

“Don’t know. You saw him last, what do you think?”

“Loki…”

“I think that’s enough talk for today.” Loki heaved himself upright, savoring the soreness in his muscles, and grimaced at the sticky mess. “Ugh.”

Skadi sat up, frowning. “That’s it? We fuck, then you leave as though it was nothing?”

“It _was_ nothing, Skadi. A bit of fun, and then we go back to ignoring each other in the halls. Or,” Loki said, looking thoughtful, “I suppose I’ll go back to my wedding preparations, and you’ll go back to stringing along the court.” He stood and went to the bed, dragging off one of the blankets to wipe himself clean. He threw the blanket to Skadi.

Skadi caught it, his eyes downcast. He said nothing as Loki dressed himself, replacing his armbands and examining his hair in the mirror. Loki huffed at his reflection. “Well, this will take ages to untangle.”

Skadi surged to his feet, snatching up his kilt and tossing the blanket aside. He stormed out the door, slamming it behind him. Loki listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall. He rolled his eyes, then went back to his primping. His responsibilities were piling ever higher, and he had to find a way to frame his explanation to his mother so as not to earn him the sharp edge of Laufey’s tongue.

He got it anyway. Laufey was in his office, meeting with his advisors. Thjazi, of course, was there, frowning at Loki’s appearance. How such a wizened specimen had managed to produce a child as beautiful as Skadi was utterly beyond Loki.

“How good of you to make an appearance,” Laufey said, allowing the map spread out on his desk to roll up in punctuation. “And in such state. I see your impending marriage is of the utmost importance to you.”

Loki bowed, putting in all the sarcastic flourishes he could manage. “Indeed, Honored Mother, I have spent this afternoon contemplating most diligently the rigors of the marriage bed.”

Thjazi’s face darkened. There were three runts in all of Útgard, and the third worked in the scullery. “Your Majesty, if it’s not too far beyond the pale, I would--”

Laufey cut him off. “Yes, we all know your concerns for my son’s influence on yours. Comfort yourself with the knowledge that the problem will shortly be removed.” He cast a sharp glance to Loki. “Now if it’s not too much of an imposition on your delicate sense of obligation, the swordsmith awaits.”

Loki ground his teeth. The lassitude he had gained from Skadi’s attentions was fading fast. He bowed once more, a far more curt gesture than the first, and made his way out. Behind him, Thjazi’s querulous voice rose, perfectly aware Loki could still hear him. “Are you sure he’s treating this marriage with the proper respect? It’s no small gain we seek…”

Laufey’s voice, in reply. “I have no doubt he’s fully aware the depth of the sacrifice he’s making. As long as he stands and says his vows on the appointed day, and does nothing to sabotage the marriage itself, I could care less what he does beforehand.”

Loki smirked bitterly at Thjazi’s discomfort. He was naught but a pustule on the bureaucratic backside of Jötunheim, a relic of the past king that Laufey had seen fit not to retire due to his encyclopedic knowledge of clan affiliations and politics. Loki let the door close behind him and made his way down through the palace to the smithies.

***

_Identity: Ekkja Geirröd Hervorsson, confirmed. Commence message replay._

"Honored Uncle, I have heard your concerns and seek to allay them. I have not forgotten my debt. My executors assure me that, although I am to leave the Íshjarta, the payments will continue as per our previous agreement. (No, you idiot, put the tapestries in _that_ box, you'll wrinkle them otherwise.)

Know that I would meet the weregild if it took my last coin. I pray this crystal meets you swiftly, and puts your fears to rest.

With the Fox in our hearts,

Loki Gudmundar-mader, Third Scion."

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

The agreed-upon day came all too soon. The entire day prior Loki spent in the wilderness beyond Útgard’s walls, saying his silent farewells to Jötunheim. He wore nothing but his kilt and boots and bore no weapon but his dagger, and he climbed to the ridge overlooking the snow-drifted valley his Foremothers had chosen for their capital. The winds above the sheltering heights were ferocious; all around lay barren tundra, swept clean even of snow. A tiny patch of stars-in-black-ice poked up through the sod. Loki bent down to catch a whiff of their delicate perfume before the wind snatched it away. In the distance, a fox yipped. A sense of premature homesickness swept over him, and he knelt, overcome, by the flowers. Sundogs danced above the horizon.

It was many hours before he made his way down from the highlands back to the city. That night was marked by a farewell dinner, with a rich spread and richer speeches. Loki listened to none of them, smiling and nodding in rote fashion as his mother prodded him. He slept poorly, that night.

Now, he sat in his bedchamber, dressed in a compromise between comfort for travel and finery fit for a diplomatic envoy, staring at the bare walls. Everything he owned was stowed in crates and trunks, piled up in the sitting room; he was but a few short hours away from leaving the Heart of Ice to become a citizen of Asgard. He felt sick.

A knock roused him from his contemplation. He swallowed and rose to open the door, expecting servants come to fetch him to the royal sleigh.

It was Laufey, formidable in his kingly regalia. Loki let him in. His mother looked him up and down, from bejeweled head to sturdy, leather-clad toe, presumably hunting for the slightest flaw. Loki bowed his head. Even the untender care of his family was becoming dear, in the face of their parting.

“You will suffice.”

They looked at each other for a moment, the silence between them stretching with all their unspoken words, and Loki opened his mouth, but a servant knocked.

“The sleigh is ready, First Scion.” Laufey dismissed him with a curt nod.

“It is time for your people to say goodbye,” Laufey said. He strode to the door and held it for Loki, who followed more slowly behind. His feet felt leaden in their boots. He shook himself. _I am a prince of the people. I am the Jötunn ambassador to Asgard. I am the frith-weaver. I will walk with the pride and dignity my station demands._ He straightened, loosened his step, and composed his face into a careful mask of blank indifference. He drew in his mind the outline of the princely ideal and molded his comportment around it. Out of the corner of his eye his saw his mother nod in silent approval.

Together they made their way through the silent throngs of Útgard’s keep. The scions in residence gathered to pay their respects to their liege and his son, bowing as they passed. Waiting for them by the door were Helblindi and Býleist, and behind them all of Laufey’s advisors. Laufey stepped up to his firstborn son, almost as tall as he himself was, and presented him a small, unremarkable key hung from a slender chain. “I present to you the Key of the House,” he said. “Guard it in my absence, and lead our people well.”

Helblindi bowed, accepting the key with all the reverence due an ancestral relic. “I will do as you command, Honored Mother.” He settled the key around his neck, mindful of his horns. Laufey clapped a hand to his shoulder, and laid one also on the shoulder of Býleist, who looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. “Stay strong, my sons. When I return, our people shall be whole once more.” Loki hung back from the tableau, keenly aware of his distance from his people’s impending restoration. A leaden weight settled in his stomach.

His farewells complete, Laufey drew Loki outside. The sleigh waited for them in the outer courtyard, drawn by five dire wolves and steered from behind by the musher. Loki took the more desirable forward facing seat, as was his right this day; Laufey conceded to sitting the other way. He signaled the musher, and with sharp call the wolves were off, howling and snapping at each other in restrained excitement. They slipped over the snow- and ice-covered ground, through the sally port and out into the anemic, shadowed sunlight of a late spring day. They were silent for a time, as they rode from the palace to the city of Útgard below, and naught but the sound of the wind, the runners breaking through the icy crust, and the happy, yipping snarls of the wolves broke it.

Gradually the road widened, leading into the home stretch to the city. Loki could see straggling citizens lining the verge, trampling the planted rows of courtier’s fan in their efforts to see their newly-beloved prince. He restrained himself from rolling his eyes, keeping his gaze locked forward and his expression distant. Laufey likewise ignored the populace. Despite this, cheers rose as the sleigh passed, growing in volume the closer they came to the city center.

Útgard had once been the jewel of his mother’s kingdom. In the millennia before the war and his birth, it had been the cultural and political center of the province of Útgard, and of Jötunheim. It was still those things, but its glory had dimmed, falling into disarray with the loss of an entire generation of Jötunn youth to bloodshed, and the beating heart of the Jötnar lost to the grasping, merciless hands of the Æsir. Entire districts of buildings once thriving with commerce stood abandoned, crumbling away to shapeless ice and snow, and the people’s hope was all the more heartbreaking to behold, highlighted as it was by a background of despair. _We are becoming a mean and tiny people,_ Loki thought. His resolve to do his duty firmed. He would not see the renaissance of Jötunheim, but he would be its cause. He would not fail them.

The sleigh drew them toward the ruined husk of the Temple of the Foremothers. Loki stood and stretched for his hand, sending a tendril of _seiðr_ with it; a tiny black speck darted from the peak of the northern spire, dodging through the shifting breezes to answer his summons. It was an ancestor dove, black as the deepest ice. He stroked its plumage, soothing it with a brush of his magic. When the sleigh stopped, he stepped out to the packed ice and climbed the steps to the temple sanctuary. Laufey followed. They ascended the steps, and were met at the top by the abbot.

Laufey spoke. “I bring my son to consecrate himself for matrimony in his ancestors’ sight.”

The priest bowed and gestured them in. Together, flanked by the monastic order that tended the ruins as best they were able, they climbed to the peak of the basilica, to the open platform where the Casket of Ancient Winters had once been displayed for all the people to see. Now there stood only the empty plinth, absent its holy burden. The line of priests deployed about them, surrounding the altar in a half circle. One held a censer of blue dart incense, another a small set of cymbals, which he used to beat out a regular, hypnotizing rhythm.

It was a small ceremony, for its import; the priest cleansed the altar space with the incense, the abbot blessed the plinth. Loki stepped forward, taking his cue, and raised the dove overhead, declaiming the traditional words. The natural acoustics of the space carried them to the onlookers below.

“With this dove I pledge my troth to my people, as I seal it with another. Its blood is my blood; its heart, my heart. I place both before this altar of my Foremothers, and consecrate myself heir to the soul of the Jötnar.” He paused, letting the echoes of the vow fade, before he went on with his own addition. “I swear to the Ancestors and the spirits beyond that I will see the Casket of our people returned to its rightful hands.” With that, he drew the dagger at his belt and slit the dove’s throat, sprinkling the hot drops of its blood over the plinth. Where they landed they melted the ice, adding new scars to its pitted, stained surface. He dipped three fingers into the small puddle of blood and smeared them down his face, over his closed eyelids and down the line of his nose, to seal the pledge. It cooled rapidly against his wind-chilled skin. He left the bird’s carcass on the platter meant for it. Already, the outline of a greater shrike circled overhead, anticipating an easy meal. The priests cut off their chant, and cloaked by silence, mother and son made their way back down through the temple to the waiting sleigh.

There was silence, too, in the square when they emerged, the common people clustered together to watch the marital consecration of a prince. Loki’s words had struck a chord, and they resonated with the sostenuto ring of his nascent legend. It took but one voice close at hand, murmuring, “Hail, Loki!” for the cry to be taken up by those nearby, and to spread throughout the square until every Jötunn voice cried as one: “Hail, Loki! Hail, Loki!” Fire and ice flushed over Loki’s skin, and he stood, as tall as he was able, on the stoop of the temple door. If he was to leave his homeland, at least he would leave a hero.

Eventually he stepped down, making the otherwise short walk into a procession. Behind him, Laufey grumbled. Loki paid him no mind. This was for the people as much as it was for him, and if it was a hero they wanted, a hero they would get. He climbed back into the sleigh to the sound of his people’s adoration and the sight of his mother’s restrained glare.

The cheers faded rapidly, for the road they took led through a crumbling, filthy slum, and Loki was abruptly reminded of the sincere need that prompted the populace’s frenzy. He watched the buildings slide past, with their dark windows and furtive inhabitants, and repeated to himself his oath. “I swear to the Ancestors and the spirits beyond I will see the Casket of our people returned to its rightful hands.”

Laufey gave him a knowing look. “Who will be remembered for its return, the bride who paid for it, or the king who restored it?”

Loki returned with a sour frown. “What does it matter, so long as this squalor disappears from our cities and villages?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy that little stunt at the Temple.”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Of course I did. That doesn’t mean I swore the oath just for the glory it would bring me.”

“It will bring you little.”

“Then I had best enjoy what little I’ve received,” he said waspishly. He sat back in his seat, glaring at his mother. Laufey met his gaze placidly, but with a smug air. Loki gritted his teeth.

Their journey ended with the road, at the edge of a great precipice. Far below, the river Ifing threw torrents of mist into the air, refracting rainbows as far as the eye could see. Short of the yawning gap, Loki saw, were the imprints of countless circular seals—the distinctive knotwork signature of the Bifröst, stamped into Jötunn ice so often that the eldest, some older than Útgard itself, were obscured beneath the weight of untold numbers of younger marks. Loki swallowed.

Laufey stepped out, staring skyward, with Loki at his side; around them, their escort arrayed themselves in a protective hemisphere. All of them, royals and guards alike, waited for the Gatekeeper to accept them into Asgard.

His welcome came with a polyphonic bellow and a blaze of light, and Bifröst hurtled down to meet them.

The Rainbow Bridge was uncompromising. It tore them from the ice without a hint of mercy and flung them into the void. Loki stared wide-eyed into its kaleidoscope tunnel, transfixed by the vision of the oncoming wormhole; about him he sensed the members of his guard, short to discharge their service toward him, and ahead he could see his mother’s snapping cloak. All around him rainbows flashed, brilliant and pitiless against his sensitive eyes.

How would he fare against the people of his new home, when even their bridge was against him? He felt a heartbeat of crushing pressure as they were forced through the wormhole, and caught a bare glimpse of falling water and distant, brazen towers before the Bifröst spat them out.

They emerged with a roar and a gust of wind. A man awaited them, wearing golden armor and magnificent curling horns on his helmet, and his skin was soothingly dark. He stood on a dais in the middle of a great, curving room, its starry walls standing twice tall as Loki's tallest guard, and the sword he bore gleamed in the golden light. Behind him, a host of Asgardian warriors stood ready.

"Welcome to Asgard," the man said, his voice deep as cracking ice. "The Allfather awaits you."

"We thank you for you welcome, Gatekeeper," Laufey replied, inclining his head. He led them around the dais to meet the Asgardian company beyond. Loki spared a moment to marvel at the smith-work of the walls. Novae and nebulae swirled among constellations and solar systems, all chased with runes and intertwined figures. It was a masterpiece. He craned his neck, following the pillars from their peak down through the floor and under it. His gaze was drawn back to the dais and the energy well beneath it, only to find the golden eyes of the Gatekeeper boring into his own. There was a forbidding air about the man's stare, suspicion and warning rolled into one, and Loki looked away. The heavy steps of his guard followed and reassured him.

At Laufey’s approach, a man Loki assumed to be the leader of the host stepped to the fore. His hair was dark and streaked with gray at the temples, and his eyes were hard in his weather-beaten face. His bow was precise. "I am Týr, commander of the Armies of Asgard. I am to escort you to the palace."

Laufey inclined his head. "Well met, my Lord Týr." He paused as though thinking, but Loki knew it to be for effect. “Hymison, is it not?”

Týr’s eyes narrowed. “Hymir was my father, yes.”

Laufey nodded sagely. “I thought so. I remember fighting him, in the war. A good man. A good warrior. It’s a shame, the way he died.”

Týr glared at Laufey, grinding his teeth, then spun on his heel, gesturing to the soldiers behind him. They fell away to line the walls. Týr invited the Jötunn contingent forward with a sweep of his single hand, and as they passed the escort fell in step, bracketing them on either side. Loki stiffened at the implication, but reminded himself that the Æsir and the Jötnar had been enemies since before his mother's mother had been king. They would be no more pleased at having jötunns in their Realm than Loki was at being here. Further, Laufey seemed uninclined to put up a fuss. Loki held in his indignation and walked.

Loki's first sight of Asgard was of a city, gold as all things in Asgard seemed to be, thrusting skyward from its watery, rocky base. Smells rose rich in the warm air: water and stinging brine, and a dank, earthy smell, the likes of which Loki had only smelled on Álfheim. A causeway lanced forth from the Bifröst room, stretching over the sea toward the city, and divided tongues of light flickered along its length. It sang in a soft hum beneath their steps.

The walk was silent, for neither the Commander of Asgard's Armies nor the mother of His heir’s intended were inclined to speak. They kept an unspoken peace, and the longer they walked the more the heat grew. Loki marveled at the sky, for the cloudy heavens of Jötunheim held nowhere near such celestial splendor, but such clarity also allowed a punishing sun to reign over Asgard's inhabitants. Loki could feel his skin heating and prickling in protest, and he pulled the _hrímskjöld_ to play across his skin. It helped, a little. He squinted against the brightness.

It was a blessing when they reached the city. The jötunns were beginning to fade, and the long shadows of the city's towers were balm to their abused skin. It was also cruel, for there were eyes in the city. Asgard’s people lined the streets, not with the joy that had filled the people of Útgard, but with dark looks and angry whispers. Loki kept his head high and followed his escort, and the memory of his farewell from Útgard sat bitterly in his heart.

He could not prevent himself, however, from peering about as they walked. Asgard was so different from what he knew. Trees grew in abundance—not so formidably as those on Álfheim, but no less free from icy winter winds, and standing all the straighter for it. Flowers grew, as well, and something Loki had no name for but which climbed up the walls like green frost. He asked Týr of it.

He seemed surprised that Loki had spoken at all. "You mean the ivy? Aye, it grows everywhere. I used to climb it as a boy."

Loki thanked him, and filed the information away.

The people were different, too. He should have expected it. He had heard the stories and read accounts; he seen the negotiating party. He had known the Æsir were pink and short, but knowing and seeing were, once more, two vastly different things. Not all of them were hairy, to his confusion. Some bore cheeks as smooth as Loki's own, and hair just as long. The Jötnar stood out sorely from their gathered, miniature ranks.

They walked, crossing vast squares and passing leafy bowers that opened onto narrow stone streets. Presently, they came into the shadow of a building built in ranked tiers of flutes, whose titanic size dwarfed even those prodigious spires that clustered around its base. This, then, must be Gladsheim, the seat of Asgard's might.

Týr led the way across a plaza, as colossal in its acreage as Gladsheim was in its height, and Loki spared the thought that perhaps the Æsir built such mighty structures to compensate for their short height.

A series of reflecting pools, fed by waterfalls pouring from Gladsheim’s walls, marked the separation of plaza to palace, and clever stonework mimicked greenery that might otherwise have grown alongside such watercourses. "Is it a sign of power in this Realm, to display water so extravagantly?" he inquired of the Commander.

Týr glanced at him, puzzlement writ in his expression. "Perhaps in the engineering of the fountains."

"Then such standing water is customary."

Týr shrugged. "It’s pleasant to look upon."

Loki fell silent. He had studied Asgard for eight solid months in order to be a fit helpmeet to his future spouse. He felt as though he had learned nothing at all.

The stairs leading to Gladsheim's narthex were, for once, of a size with Loki. They almost seemed too short, accustomed as he was to the taller stairs of his homeland. Perhaps some things about living in this place would not be as bad as others. Beside him, Laufey motioned the Jötunn guard to arrange themselves about him as a proper honor guard should. The Asgardian soldiers’ hands tightened on their weapons. The air of distrust and tension was crisp and full-bodied. Loki fancied he could savor its thousand-year vintage.

They crested the stairs, and the sweeping overhang of the palace entry blocked out the sun. Darkness assailed their eyes, and their party paused. Laufey looked to the leader of his guard. He bowed and drew up the ram's horn from his belt, sounding a long, mournful blast. His second drew another, smaller horn, and sounded a matched blast a third higher. Týr, sharing a nod with Laufey, led them forward.

He led them through a thicket of columns. They lined the nave down which they walked, and the aisles beyond, until they were lost to distance and shadow. Up ahead, backlit by an oculus, stood the magnificent curve of the Allfather’s throne, Hlidskjálf, and before it, the Allfather himself, the great spear Gungnir in hand. His advisors stood about the base of the throne, mingling with the Royal family, who stood with their most trusted warriors. Loki took a deep, settling breath as they approached.

“Welcome, Laufey, son of Nál,” Odin intoned as he stepped down from the dais, sacrificing his advantage of height to greet his guests and to conclude the final legal transaction before the wedding itself. “Be at ease in my house.”

Laufey bowed, as proper for a vassal to his liege lord. “I am humbled by the hospitality of your people, Odin, son of Bor.”

Loki glanced to the group behind Asgard’s king: Thor was first visible, soberly dressed in a dark cape drawn over his armor, his infamous hammer nowhere in sight. His face was crumpled in frustration and sick apprehension. Loki sympathized. The person beside him could only be his mother, judging from the way… _she_ rested her hand upon his arm. Her face, counter to her son’s, was serene. Her attention was divided, however, by two children of close, young age, one golden-headed, the other dark, who were pushing at each other and ignoring their nurse’s hissed warnings. A sharp word from Queen Frigga and they gazed up at her, small faces contrite. Loki stifled a smile and returned to watch his mother and future father-in-law.

“I would see what I have been promised, before I give dowry,” Laufey said.

Odin inclined his head. “As you wish.” He gestured to a guard, half-hidden in shadow, who bowed and disappeared; he returned a moment later, his stride slower and heavier, with the Casket in his carefully gloved grasp.

Loki breathed out a soft hiss at the power suffusing from it. As though he were transported, he found himself smelling the crisp ice of a glacier, and feeling the frigid winds above his ancestral valley. The _hrímskjöld_ shivered under his skin, reaching out to the holy presence of Jötunheim’s soul. All around him the guards were likewise shuddering, and gazing longingly at the artifact in the guard’s grasp. Loki understood, now, why his mother had been so eager for the Casket of Ancient Winters to be returned. His heart was alternately lightened and burdened, for while he had this brief moment to savor the heartbeat of the Hrímthursar, it would shortly be taken away, far beyond his grasp.

Laufey pulled the papers from his waterproofed belt pouch. “As negotiated, Odin King,” he said, proffering them to the attendant at his side. “The mining rights to our third moon, and a written, signed, witnessed statement that I will not interfere in any capacity in your dealings with the Eldjötnar.”

Odin accepted the scrolls. “I am glad we could put aside our enmity to find a better peace between our peoples,” he said. He made another gesture, and the guard brought the Casket forward. Laufey took it with an almost inaudible sigh, his fingers tightening about it and his head tilting back, as though in ecstasy. Loki wondered what it must feel like. Laufey did not long indulge, however, for no more than a heartbeat later he swirled it away into a dimensional pocket, and its thrumming, icy presence faded to no more than a whisper.

“You are a man of honor, Odin, son of Bor,” he said.

Odin inclined his head again. “I would do more, for the sake of peace. It has been many long years since we fought; it is time the old injuries be forgotten.” He pounded the butt of his spear against the flags, and three servants appeared. “Áleif, Hrösvi, and Unna will show you to your rooms and see about accommodating your guard. There will be a feast tonight in your honor, and tomorrow, we will join our two houses.”

Laufey bowed and followed the servants. Loki trailed behind, glancing back for one last look at the man he would marry, and the family that would soon become his own. They vanished behind the rows of columns.

***

Their accommodations were spacious and airy. Through the windows was a magnificent vista of the southern mountains, snowcapped and looming over the already impressive relief of Asgard’s capital city. Loki barely noticed. It was late afternoon, and the dinner hour was approaching. He dug through the immense pile of his belongings for his formal dress kilt and cape and sat down to prepare for the welcoming feast. None of his mother’s servants came to attend him, doubtless busy with the manifold other preparations required of them, and rather than enquire as to an Asgardian chambermaid he plaited his own hair and dressed himself.

That dispensed with, he stared at the unfamiliar, stifling confines of his new chambers, and promptly decided to explore the palace until dinner.

His resolution lasted him until halfway down the hall. Servants were everywhere, scuttling to and fro, carrying candles, clothing, and food. They were well-trained, were Gladsheim’s servants. Most kept their faces impassive upon seeing him, but no few stopped and gawked as he passed, or whispered soft prayers, or ostentatiously went out of their way to avoid him. Loki stoked his anger to keep from feeling shame. What right had they to treat him thus? What could he do, here, in the very beating heart of their homeland? He stiffened his spine and carried on down the hall, though his desire to see what Gladsheim had to offer had evaporated. He had set his course, however, and he would see it to the end.

“What’s this?” A deep voice boomed behind him. “Why are you all standing about?” Loki turned, and saw it was Thor, returned from his father’s audience. An elderly servant-woman was speaking to him, tugging him down by the front of his cloak to speak in his ear, and Loki saw him stiffen, his face setting into angry lines. He glared over the heads of people clogging the hall, his eyes meeting Loki’s. He advanced through the throng, servants and nobles alike parting to make way.

Loki stood his ground. He had a right to be here, though he hardly felt it; and in the face of the heir to Asgard’s throne bearing down on him like a raging bull, he felt it rather less. Thor came up to him, looming as much as he was able. Loki was pleased to see that it was not by much. “What devilry are you planning, frost giant?” Thor looked him up and down, sneering, as though to underscore the inaccuracy, in Loki’s case, of the slur.

Loki raised a brow. “Is this how you maintain the hospitality of your father’s hall? Odin would be disappointed, I think.”

Thor’s face turned a curious shade of pink, and Loki watched, fascinated, as he struggled to find an appropriate response. He huffed in exasperation. “If you are so concerned about my wanderings, then perhaps you should accompany me, the better to ensure I don’t wreak any havoc.”

He fully anticipated the Odinsson to decline; it was, therefore, an utter shock when Thor nodded, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps I should. Mother said I must get to know my fiancé before I condemn him; I see little in you worth knowing, but I would not disappoint her as I have the expectation of my father’s hospitality.”

A far prettier speech, too, than Loki had expected. He inclined his head and continued walking down the hall, trusting Thor to decide in his own time whether or not to catch up.

Two long strides had Thor at his side, and together they made a path through the busy halls. Loki scraped for something to say.

Thor beat him to it. “What is the Casket, that you would sacrifice so much for its return?”

Loki looked to him, once more surprised by Thor’s depth of insight, despite his blunt exterior. He considered. “Would you not do a great many worse things than wedding your enemy if it meant the return of your hammer?”

Thor scowled. “I would consider it, perhaps, but that is because I know Mjölnir’s worth. What I do not understand is why the king of Jötunheim would sacrifice a son for the sake of a blue box.”

“It is more than just a box,” Loki said calmly, avoiding a servant hoisting an immense trunk over his shoulder. “It is the heart and soul of my people. It is the wisdom and magic of every one of my Foremothers, offered up before their deaths as a blood oath to the people. When my mother feels his time has come, he, too, will pour his spirit into the Casket, that our people might go on.”

“Your mother? Why not Laufey?”

Loki stopped in the middle of an intersection to stare at Thor. Was he truly so ignorant? “Laufey _is_ my mother.”

Thor’s expression would have been priceless in any other situation. “But he’s… how can he… who was it that birthed you?”

Loki resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Laufey birthed me. Laufey is my mother. Laufey is King. Fárbauti was my father and the Queen-Consort, because as you apparently do not realize, we jötunns mark lineage by who bears the child, not by who sires it.”

He watched the confusion and realization war across Thor’s face, and his raging blush was followed by morbid curiosity. “But Laufey looks like a man,” he said lamely.

Loki prayed to his Foremothers for patience. “And you look like a fool, Thor, son of Odin.”

“Then you can… bear children?”

Loki was reduced to stupefied silence a second time. “How, pray tell, did you anticipate there to be any children from our union if I could _not_ bear them?”

Thor started walking, cheeks bright and rosy in the golden light of Gladsheim’s halls. Loki kept pace. “I had not thought about it,” he muttered.

Loki shook his head. Unbelievable. He was marrying an idiot. Possibly a simpleton, as well—Thor was well-known for his violent tendencies, chances were more than good he had taken too many blows to his head.

The remainder of their conversation was stilted, and the walk mercifully short. Thor brought them back to Loki’s chambers. “These are yours,” he said, unable to meet Loki’s eyes. Despair congealed in the pit of Loki’s belly. This marriage was well-favored, indeed. He inclined his head to Thor and escaped to the solitude of his cluttered, unpacked salon. He remained there until a servant, harried by the hustle and bustle of the wedding, came to summon him to the feast.

He went down with his mother ( _not_ his father) to the great hall, where countless tables had been laid for the revelers. Already the high table was filling with the Royal Family; Frigga presided in the absence of her husband and elder son, but her younger boys were there, as well as their nurse, and on the opposite side, next to the seats clearly meant for Loki and Laufey, were four individuals Loki recognized as the warriors in the throne room. They were a mixed bunch. One was massive, crowned with an intimidating wreath of shaggy russet hair; another was far more lithe, and who tended his smaller beard with all the dedication he might have shown to a lover. The third looked to be one of the Vanir, with the epicanthic eyes characteristic of that race, and the fourth looked pregnant, padded with the fat required to carry an infant to term. He wondered if, like Frigga, this was a woman. He rounded the edge of the high table and took the seat reserved for him, which by chance was next to the possible Asgardian woman. He cast glances to… her... out of the corner of his eye, uncertain how to broach the subject. His dilemma was interrupted by Frigga, who came to welcome him personally.

“You must be Loki,” she said, drawing him back to his feet, and Loki saw that this was not a person to take lightly. Her smile, while kindly, was surmounted by watchful eyes.

He bowed. “Honored Mother,” he said. Over her shoulder, Laufey rolled his eyes.

Frigga laughed. “Oh, I think I like you,” she said. “How have you found your rooms? They are smaller than some in that wing, but they are simpler, and the view is nicer. I had a feeling they would suit you best.”

“They are lovely. I could not have asked for better at the keep of Útgard.”

“That is high praise, indeed,” Frigga said. “I hope we can continue to exceed your expectations.”

He thought of his conversation with Thor. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

The Queen gave him a knowing smile. “I think I would like to get to know you better, Loki, after all this to-do is dispensed with. Come to me any time, and we will sit and have a chat.”

Loki bowed, and she smiled that enigmatic smile before departing. Loki took his seat once more, musing on what a sense of humor the cosmos must have, to produce from such a canny mother so dense a son. He turned to the person next to him. “Forgive me, I am unfamiliar with the customs here. When does the feasting begin?”

She gave him a distinctly unimpressed look. “When the Allfather and Thor arrive.”

“Ah,” said Loki. “And at a feast in our honor. Of course.”

Her face darkened. “You are the frost giant to wed Thor, aren’t you.”

Loki made a delicate show of looking around. “Well, I don’t see many others; perhaps you have a better view than I?”

“Sass me again, and I will cut you open to see if you’re blue on the inside, too.”

Loki bowed as best as he was able while remaining seated. “My apologies, I had not meant to insult. To answer your question, yes, I am Loki of Jötunheim, intended of Thor of Asgard. To whom may I make my acquaintance?”

The individual glared at him, clearly judging his sincerity, before she spoke. “I am Lady Sif, daughter of Leif.”

Wonderful. He knew what to call her, and that she was a woman for certain and not simply fat. “My Lady. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Lady Sif did not mince words. “If you harm Thor, Jötunn, just one hair on his head, you will not live to see the next day.”

So it was to be like that, was it. Well. “You are his wife, then?”

Sif colored, in that remarkably pink way these Asgardians had. “No.”

“Ah. And yet so close to the family. You and your…” Loki glanced to the men behind her. The hairy one was demonstrating a particularly resonant belch for his companions’ delectation. Sif winced. “Compatriots, you are friends of Thor?”

“We are the Warriors Three!” the belcher cried, pounding the table. “The best warriors in Asgard. And Lady Sif, of course.”

Loki turned his gaze back to Sif. “I see. How good to have met you all.”

“The pleasure is ours, frost giant!”

Sif stared daggers at Loki. He gazed placidly back. She knew she could do nothing to him here, not and maintain the good favor of the Allfather, and now Loki knew it, too. He restrained his smug pride by the shoddiest of masks and carefully noted Sif’s impotent rage. It was a shame, if not unexpected, to have made a new enemy so quickly.

Plainly there would be no conversation of worth tonight. He settled himself back in his chair and reached for his goblet. It was filled, he was gratified to discover, with very fine, very strong mead. He drank deeply, and by the time his intended and the Allfather arrived to begin the feast, he was already pleasantly intoxicated. By night’s end, he was so far in his cups the room spun about him. His one consolation was that, unlike Thor, he did not require a servant’s assistance to walk.

He sank into the covers of his strange, new bed and let the entire day drift away on a wave of fermented honey.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning came in a blur of overbright light, as though someone had shone a lamp straight in Loki’s eyes. He groaned and rolled over, burying his face in the bedclothes.

“None of that, Honored One,” came the voice of his father’s valet, Valgerd. “I must needs get you up and dressed, or the First Scion will be most displeased.”

Loki groaned again and flailed his arm, trying to get the offending pest to leave him to die in peace, but Valgerd was a more stubborn burn than he had anticipated. He dragged the sheets off of Loki’s prone body, exposing him to the sudden chill of the air, then proceeded to open the windows, which served to admit the morning fog. He sat up, shivering and squinting.

“It’s but a mere six hours before the wedding,” Valgerd said apologetically, “and we have much work ahead of us. The chambermaids are only now searching for the trunk which holds your dowry.”

Loki nodded. His head felt muzzy, and he wasn’t entirely sure he was sober yet. “What do you want first of me?”

Valgerd considered. “No offense meant, Honored One, but you look a fright. I think a bath would do you right up.”

“A bath.” Loki let that sink in for a moment. His face felt greasy, and his hair was surely a hideous mess. “Yes, I think a bath would do nicely.” He rose, then stopped. "Where is the bath?"

Valgerd drew him over, well accustomed to the morning after fumblings of royalty. "This way, Honored One. It's a wonder, to be sure; they've got pools of water, and no need to melt it beforehand."

Indeed, Loki found as he luxuriated in the en suite sauna, Asgardian bathing facilities were vastly superior to the water-sparse equivalents on Jötunheim. The wood-panelled walls smelled faintly of cedar and pine, and mingled with the light perfumes of the soaps set out for his use. He drifted for a time, letting the last of the alcohol sweat from his body.

He followed the steam bath with a dip in the cold pool, both closing his pores and waking himself thoroughly. He rose from the water refreshed. “Dress me well, Valgerd, for I would make a good impression on my wedding day.”

Valgerd bowed. “As my lord commands.” He gestured to the side, toward a jötunn whom Loki had missed, short as he was; he was a runt, like Loki himself, though Loki did not recognize him. “This is Hevring,” Valgerd said. “He will be your valet when the marriage is settled, and will stay with you here in Asgard. He will help me today. Is that acceptable?”

Loki examined the little jötunn. He was small, smaller than Loki, and his face, while not homely, was nevertheless unprepossessing. But his face was clever, and his eyes gentle. “Where are you from?” he asked.

“Gastropnir, Honored One,” he said. “My parents live in the Narrows. I worked as valet for Leirbrimir before the First Scion’s agents took my claim.”

Yes, Loki thought he might like this one. He nodded to Valgerd, who gestured Hevring forward. “We’ll do your hair first, Honored One, that’ll take the longest.” He turned Loki about, standing him before a stool that he himself sat on, the better to accommodate the differences in their height, and set to Loki’s hair with a will. Hevring helped in small ways, holding out tools and taking sections of hair when Valgerd needed.

Loki wondered for a moment how his mother was making do without his personal valet. But watching Valgerd section and braid his hair, with the artistry it required, chased away his guilt. The style he had chosen was not an easy one: it was ancient, dating to the earliest records of Jötunheim, and consisted of dozens of interwoven braids, all looped and twisted and held in place with pins of ivory and gold capped with tiny emeralds. Valgerd was a master, and Loki would have no other for his wedding day. All the same, he was fidgeting long before Valgerd was half through. Hevring took advantage of his enforced idleness to paint his finger- and toenails, lacquering them a deep, almost black shade of blue.

Then it was time for the threaders, who came to thread his body of every last hair, short his brows and eyelashes. That was a trying experience for everyone, especially Valgerd, who forgot himself more than once as Loki twitched, and cursed like the sailors of his family. Loki felt it rich that he, of the two of them, felt the most injured by the threaders’ art, when it was Loki who had to endure their tender mercies directly.

All told, by the time Valgerd had neared the end of his task, the sun was nearing midday and Loki was thoroughly prepared to abandon the effort and attend the ceremony with his hair half-braided.

“Almost through, my lord,” Valgerd murmured, with the infinite patience that had served him well through twenty centuries as Laufey’s valet. Loki sighed, and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

As soon as Valgerd released him, Loki promptly rolled his head, stretching the stiff muscles from their forced position. His hair moved with him, heavy enough for him to feel the shifting braids. Then it was time to dress, and Loki lost himself for a time in the glorious textures and patterns.

He had seen them all being made, of course; had watched the weavers milking the captured spiders of their silk, and the delicate spindles that collected their bounty. He had seen the looms onto which the silk was framed and woven, and the embroiderers, acknowledged masters of their art, stitch endless, complicated patterns into the fabric at breakneck pace. Loki had seen it all, and yet, when he wrapped the kilt, shining gold in the sunlight, about his waist, it was as though he saw it afresh for the first time.

His dowry followed, a ransom of gold slipped into the vacancies left by the piercers’ attentions. First came the torc, a symbol of his impending familial independence, the finials wrought into the heads of dragons bearing flawless pearls in their mouths. Then came the bulk of it: the armbands, the necklaces, the rings, and the finely-wrought chains, all interspersed with gemstones at studied intervals to create pleasing patterns. Cuffs framed his upper arms; serpentine coils crept up his forearms. His earlobes and pinnae were weighed down with rings and bangles, and his nipples and cock, still newly-pierced enough to be over-sensitive, bore rings as well. A circlet was woven through the thick weight of his hair, and poor Valgerd, damned with his care, was once again pressed into service to afix the hammered gold sheaths to his horns without damage to his coif. His every move jangled with the soft chime of gold on gold.

He finished his accessories with four daggers: two at his belt on the left side and one on his right, and the final one tucked into his boot. Over all he wore the white bear skin, so expertly skinned and tanned that its head might be used as a hood.

He went to the mirror once the ensemble was complete, curious to see how he looked. His breath caught. He was beautiful, and as formidable as a Jötunn warrior-prince should be. His heart fluttered in his chest, suddenly cognizant that this was his wedding day, and that beyond this point, nothing would be the same. He looked around his quarters, opulently decorated yet barren of personal taste; after this day, these rooms would be his, in the most absolute way a jötunn in Asgard could be granted. He found himself trembling beneath the weight of his finery.

A knock on his door cut through the furor, and Laufey stepped in. He surveyed the room and its occupants, and saw that Loki was ready. “Leave us,” he commanded, and the servants complied. Laufey took a moment to examine him. Loki stood straighter beneath his demanding gaze.

“You are a credit to our House,” he finally said.

Loki bowed reflexively, words utterly beyond his grasp. He stared at the floor. As though he, too, were affected by the gravity of the moment, Laufey wordlessly pulled something from his wrist and held it out. Loki looked up, curious; it was a bracelet, hammered of gold. He looked up at Laufey.

“It was Fárbauti’s,” he said. “Part of his dowry. It was his favorite piece, I think. He would have wanted you to have it, for your own dowry.” Loki took it; it was etched with alternating pine needles and lightning bolts, the emblems of his House and his father’s. Laufey reached a hand out to brush Loki’s cheek. “You are very much like him. In face, and in manner. Perhaps I… I did not…” he trailed off, and lowered his hand. “I will not be able to stay long, after the ceremony. This must be my goodbye.”

Loki wasn’t sure how to reply; Laufey’s uncharacteristic tenderness set him off balance. He curled his fingers around the bracelet. It was too big for his wrist, but perhaps he could wear it as an armband. He began the laborious process of removing the jewelry from his right arm. Laufey watched, and Loki found himself wishing he would leave. He understood his mother’s attachment to this piece, and his desire to see it properly stowed on Loki’s person, but it was too intimate for Loki’s comfort. He slipped it up over his wrist and elbow, and settled it into place over his bicep. It fit well, he decided, flexing his arm. He slowly replaced all he had removed, his heart twisting in sudden knots. He looked up to his mother.

“I’ve never been the ideal son,” he said.

‘Nor I the perfect mother,” Laufey replied. “We are as we are.”

They looked at each other in a moment of perfect harmony, and Loki felt that perhaps his mother was genuinely saddened by his departure. It lasted only for a moment, until ice slipped back into Laufey’s demeanor and the mask settled itself once more about his countenance.

“Come, my son,” Laufey said. “The marriage party awaits.”

It was thus they departed Loki’s rooms, stepping through the empty halls of Gladsheim to the lower levels, and out through a great portal into a magnificent garden. Never once did Laufey seem to falter, and Loki turned to ask him how, despite the absence of a guiding servant, he seemed to know exactly where to go.

Laufey, incredibly, smiled, and it was free from sourness or malicious intent. “This is not the first attempt I have made to reclaim the Casket,” he said. “One time earlier I managed to find the plans for this very palace, and the vault that housed our beating heart. The attempt was unsuccessful, but I still recall the layouts from that mission.”

Loki nodded in understanding. Strangely, his view of his mother shifted with the revelation. He saw less, in that moment, of the scourge of his childhood and more of the desperate king, hungry to ease his people’s suffering. Perhaps it was best that such reconciliation occur now, before there was time to ruin the moment with renewed familiarity.

An Asgardian servant spotted them, and hurried to their side. “We are not quite ready to begin,” he said breathlessly. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me, we have somewhere you might stay until such time as we are ready for you?”

As one Laufey and Loki inclined their heads, and the servant, clearly relieved by this easy acquiescence, led them through garden after sculpted garden until the rows of formal growth gave way to the unruly, aged tangle of old-growth forest--a relic, perhaps, of when this floating platform of the Æsir was first set in motion.

The paths in this wood were narrow but deeply worn. Oak and spruce predominated, with a smattering of pine and birch. The air was fragrant with the scents of rot and growing wood, and patches of blackberries arose where the thicket grew dense enough to force out trees for sunshine. Small birds chirped to each other warnings of intruders, and squirrels chittered spitefully from their roosts. Loki felt the touch of the primeval here, and made a note of it, should he need to retreat from the Asgardian court.

The arboreal peace was disturbed by an alien edifice heaving its way up from the moss-strewn forest floor. The trees were allowed to encroach right up to its walls, and ivy grew in profusion up its sides, almost entirely obscuring it from view; nonetheless, as they drew closer Loki caught the impression of simple, undressed stone capped by a humble dome. He saw little more than that, for their guide drew them to the side, where a group of outbuildings sat clustered about a tremendous guardian oak. It was here he deposited them, with the instruction they should follow “that path when the bells ring thrice.”

They waited as instructed, and Loki pulled away from his mother to stand beneath the oak. He raised a hand to catch the leaves that were falling. They had turned brown and withered. Was the tree sick? He gazed through the rest of the forest; other trees were shedding their leaves as well, some turning magnificent reds and golds in the process. Perhaps it was normal, for this Realm. He caught a leaf that fluttered by. It was thin as parchment, and delicate as spun sugar. The trees native to Jötunheim were leathery and tough, and only shed leaves when dying. It seemed all aspects of Asgard came together to produce the most fragile, wasteful, rich realm possible. Loki crushed the leaf in his fist, sprinkling the fragments like snow.

Three bells sounded then, and he climbed over the spreading roots to where Laufey stood waiting. They knew this part of the ceremony, for they had studied their roles; and though it was held in a foreign land, enough of it was similar to their native rites to be familiar. Each step Loki took chimed with the clatter of gold against gold. It seemed to him the soft laughter of the Norns as they laid his fate before him. Ahead, the domed building rose, draped with greenery, and a pair of apple trees, dwarfed by its deceptive bulk, framed the portal through which Loki and Laufey would enter. Golden fruit hung heavy from their bows. They stepped through into the shadows beyond.

Inside was a hof, bare but for the countless statues lining the walls. An oculus sat high above, pouring light down onto a small spring. The ground around the spring had not been paved, and the water bubbling up flowed unencumbered by stone or mortar through the southeastern wall of the temple. That small grate, the oculus, and portal through which Loki had entered, were the only openings in the entirety of the structure. Further detail Loki could not determine, for the shifting sea of people, ás and jötunn alike, obscured his view.

A bull’s horn sounded at their entry. The people quieted, pulling back to form an aisle to the center of the temple; Laufey began to walk, and Loki clung to his side, suddenly finding himself near-paralyzed with nerves. He walked, he jingled, and ahead he saw Odin and Thor waiting beside the pool. The bull’s horn was replaced by a penetrating, metallic ring, as of a rod being drawn around the lip of a bowl, and the gentle, rhythmic strikes of a drum. Odin stood full in the light of the oculus, and Thor beside him; Laufey paused, his place determined, and Loki walked on, into the pool of light. His view of the onlookers faded. It was as though he were in a separate room, with only the Allfather and his intended for company.

Thor’s eyes were downcast, and the reflection of the light on the water set their unnatural blue aglow. He wore full armor and cape, though Mjölnir was absent from his belt, replaced by a simple, elegant broadsword. His golden hair was pulled back from his face to cascade over his shoulders. He was many things, but at least, Loki thought, he was handsome.

Odin spoke. “We have come to join two houses by blood and oath, in the bonds of marriage. I declare the prices paid and the union sound; is there any here with evidence this is not so?”

Stark silence answered his query. “Then let us begin. Ancestors of our peoples, I call upon you here to witness this binding. Lend your wisdom to these two before you, and give them your blessing, that it may be a fruitful marriage. Thor of Asgard, Loki of Jötunheim, kneel.” They did, Loki in a pool of white and gold and Thor in silver and red. 

The Allfather stretched his hand out, into the darkness beyond; the clatter of hooves on stone rang out, and the rattle of a neck bell, and when he drew back his hand Loki saw it held the lead of a goat’s halter. The goat bleated, and an attendant approached on the Allfather’s other side bearing a bowl and a sprig of pine. Odin stroked the goat’s ears, scratching around them and patting her neck; the goat shook her head, rattling her bell.

“We thank you, Clover, for your sacrifice, and the gift of your life.” He led her over to Thor and Loki, who placed their hands upon her sides. “Thank you, little goat,” Thor murmured, petting her back; Loki stroked his fingers down her face, feeling her hot breath against his cool hands. “Well-met, Clover.” He pulled away when she tried to nip at his braids.

Odin drew her back to him, and said, as though to her alone, “Your blood will be the blood of joining, and the seal upon the oaths here made. Your flesh will form the bridal feast, and hallow the marriage with the promise of rejuvenation. With your death, give life, and may the Ancestors take you to their bosom.” With that, he raised the dagger he had hid against his forearm and sliced it across the goat’s neck. Blood spurted; a thick, metallic smell arose to mingle with the musky scent of Clover’s body, and she twitched in shock. Odin exchanged the knife for the bowl and held it beneath the wound, collecting her blood as she crumpled.

It was a quick, clean death, and she died without a whimper. Loki felt his heart go to her, and a great sense of humility came over him, that his marriage should depend on her death. When her heart no longer pumped Odin stroked her still shoulder, then rose, lifting the hlautbowl high. “With this blood we are reminded of our beginnings; with her flesh we recall the making of the world.” He took the pine branch, and dipped it in the blood. “I consecrate the marriage of Thor, son of Odin and Loki, child of Laufey, in the names of their Ancestors, back and back and back, long may they live undying in the halls of Valhalla.” He flicked the blood-soaked branch down and then side to side, scattering hot drops across Loki’s face and shoulders. He saw Thor flinch as blood struck close to his eye. Then Odin turned to the unseen congregation, and flicked the pine branch in all directions, asperging them as he had the bride and groom. “Bear witness to this binding of blood and sacrifice, and join in the communion with the Ancestral spirits.”

Then the Allfather, handing the bloody branch back to the attendant, raised the bowl and poured it into the bare, mossy earth beside the pool. “From the spirits to the earth to us; from us to the earth to the spirits. A gift for a gift.” He handed off the empty bowl, then, bending once more to stroke Clover’s cooling body, signaled the handlers to take her from the hof. The kitchens were waiting, and she would soon grace the table of the wedding feast.

Odin turned back to the bride and groom, and bid them rise. “It is time to pass the rings and swords,” he said. “Loki, do you bear with you a sword and ring to gift your intended?” Loki nodded, and untied the third dagger from his belt. It was a dagger in the Jötunn style, and thus as long as a jötunn’s forearm; less a dagger, and more a short, leaf-shaped sword. It bore a heavy gold ring tied to the hilt. He held it toward Thor.

“With this sword I grant to you, Thor Odinsson, the responsibility of my protection. With this ring I pledge my troth.”

Thor took the weapon solemnly, and tied it to his own belt. He submitted to Loki placing the ring on his finger.

“Thor, do you bear with you a sword and ring to gift your intended?”

Thor nodded and removed the broadsword he bore. “Loki Laufeyjarson, I grant to you this sword, that you may keep it in trust for our sons until they come of age. With this ring I pledge my troth.” Loki accepted the blade, and the ring upon the hilt, and wondered for a moment what to do with it before tying it to his belt. It seemed sensible enough to him, though from the low breath of whispers sweeping through the hall, and the uncertain dart of Thor’s eyes to his father’s face, this was not regular. Loki mentally shrugged. Perhaps for a woman it was unusual, but Loki was not a woman. There was, too, a moment of confusion when Thor moved to slip the ring on his finger, and found no finger free from rings upon which to slip it. Loki raised a brow, half daring him, and Thor seemed to shrug before snugging the ring up against the others.

Odin stepped forward, then, and produced Mjölnir from the folds of his cloak. He raised it between them. "I hereby proclaim Loki Laufeyjarson, Prince of Jötunheim, to be the consort-concubine of Thor Odinsson, Prince and Heir of Asgard.” He held the hammer out between them, head down, with the shaft pointing to the oculus. “Place your hands on the hammer, and think carefully on your words.” They complied, interlacing their hands over Mjölnir’s leather-wrapped shaft. The heat of Thor’s hands against Loki’s was unbelievable.

“Thor, it is your responsibility to care for your concubine's welfare, and see that he neither wants nor suffers. Do you agree to these terms?”

Loki felt Thor’s hands tighten about the haft. “I do,” he said, his unnatural blue eyes boring into Loki’s own, and with little joy.

“Loki, it is your duty to uphold Thor as your husband. Do you agree not to stray, and to provide for him a haven should he desire your company?”

“I do.” The words were bitter on his tongue.

“Then it is done. You are wedded in the sight of the Ancestors and your peers." At this, the congregants began to clap, celebrating the new marriage; their applause echoed through the dome of the hof. In answer, Thor took back the hammer and raised it overhead, as though in triumph. Cheers erupted, and Loki couldn’t help thinking that, once more, Thor had proved himself the conqueror of giants.

He took Thor’s hand when he offered it, and together they processed down the aisle to the door and into mid-afternoon sunshine. Behind them the wedding guests followed, laughing and singing. The broadsword was clumsy with his stride, hanging at an awkward height and knocking into his bearskin cloak. Loki rested his hand on the pommel as they walked, to still its wayward swaying. Thor’s hand was sweating. Loki longed to release it to wipe off his own hand.

They made their way through the sacred wood back to the palace. It was a bright, Asgardian day, and Loki squinted against the sunlight. His earlobes and nipples were beginning to ache from the weight of the jewelry strung from them, and his hair itched furiously beneath the braids. All told he was willing to forgo the wedding feast in favor of casting off his finery, but his duty was not yet dispensed with.

Thor led them through the formal gardens, then through the polished halls of Gladsheim, until finally they came to the banqueting hall. Loki could see servants bustling about inside, putting down the finishing touches to the tableware in anticipation of their arrival.

His step quickened, eager to sit and ease his aching feet, but Thor’s arm suddenly barred the way, Mjölnir in hand. Loki looked to him, startled, and met his new husband’s impassive gaze. He stood, confused, before he remembered the ritual drama. Behind them, the wedding guests had spread out, to watch the scene unfold.

Thor spoke. “Who is it,that would enter this hall?”

Loki restrained his more irreverent impulses, and kept to the script. “I am Loki of Asgard, wedded to Thor, son of Odin.”

“Then be you welcome, here,” Thor said, and held out his hand once more. Loki took it, and Thor led him over the threshold of the hall. Another spate of cheers arose once this was done, and Loki rolled his eyes at the insanity of Asgardians.

Loki followed him forward into the center of the hall. They stopped there, over the middle of the massive frith-knot pattern inlaid in the floor. All around them, the wedding guests filled the benches and tables, and before them at the high table, Odin, Frigga, their two younger sons and their caretaker, as well as Laufey, his trusted lieutenant and the Warriors Four, all took their seats.

A servant came forward, bearing a loving-cup of mead. This, then, was the Bridal Ale. Recalling his role, Loki took the cup from the servant, and turned to Thor. Thor swallowed. More than any other part of the feast, this was most important. Loki’s fingers turned pale around the cup’s handles, to keep them from shaking. He spoke the traditional words.

“Mead I bring thee, thou oak-of-battle, / Mingled of strength and mighty fame; / Charms it holds, and healing signs, / Spells full good, and gladness runes.” His voice was strong, and carried through the whole of the hall. He offered the cup to Thor.

Thor took it. “To the Ancestors,” he said, and drank deeply. His eyes, when he lowered it, were troubled, but he handed the vessel back to Loki without a word. “To my Foremothers,” he said, and drank. It was excellent mead, effervescent and with just the right amount of sweetness to temper the alcoholic bite. He returned the cup to the servant, then in his new position as master of Thor’s house, turned to face the hall and declared, “Feast, and be welcome to the hospitality of this hall!”

Yet more cheering greeted this statement, and followed them all the way to their seats at the center of the high table, at the place of honor. Thus began the feast.

It was long, and Loki, already overwhelmed by everything else that had happened, ate little. The flavors Asgardians used to spice their food were unfamiliar and strong, and not to Loki’s taste, though when the consecrated roast goat was presented, he made sure to take a large slice and to finish it all. Besides, it was hard to ruin meat, no matter how it was spiced, and he had a feeling he would need the fortification tonight. He looked to his new husband. Thor was eating copious amounts of food and drink, laughing with the Warriors. If his laughter seemed stiff, Loki couldn’t fault him. He felt little room in him for laughter, eaten as he was with apprehension.

Loki was no maiden, unfamiliar with sex and its attendant joys and hazards. He had more than a little experience, and enough to know that tonight, if all went well, would still not rank among the better of his worst trysts. The periodic sidelong glances Thor threw him spoke to the same emotion on his part. A mental image of the incomplete, dangly genitalia of the Asgardian male flashed through Loki’s mind, and he pushed away his bowl of soup, appetite fled. He shuddered to think how Thor would respond to his own organs. Being the ignorant, small-minded creature that he was, Loki doubted it would be well.

Thus it was a mixed blessing when the time came to quit the great hall and make for the wedding chamber. The happy cheers turned ribald as the party of witnesses gathered to escort them thence, but Loki hardly heard them, for a rushing sound had filled his ears, and his feet felt as though they were made of stone. Frigga led the way through the halls, taking up her mantle of Allmother as she escorted them to the bridal suite. Loki followed her blindly, Thor’s presence at his side consuming his awareness.

The suite was set up in Thor’s chambers. Outside, night had fallen, and darkness, or what passed for it in this sun-blasted place, pressed against the windows. Candles were scattered over every horizontal surface, and a fire roared in the hearth. Perhaps someone thought Loki would welcome the warmth, coming from so cold a world. Sweat beaded up at the nape of his neck.

At Frigga’s urging, they sat side by side on the trunk at the foot of Thor's bed, where the witnesses could see them. Loki swallowed, and looked past them, to the sitting room beyond. There was, of all things, a bookcase leaning against the wall. He resisted looking to Thor.

Frigga interrupted his stricken thoughts by laying her hands on their shoulders. Her voice cut through the merriment. “‘Bring in the hammer to hallow the bride; / on the maiden's knees let Mjölnir lie, / that you both the band of Vör may bless.’”

Loki found himself flushing, and Thor’s face, as he lifted Mjölnir to lay it in Loki’s lap, was red as his cape. The bawdy whoops whistles of the gathered witnesses rose at this symbolic defloration. Loki squirmed beneath the crushing weight of the hammer. Frigga patted their shoulders, and Loki caught the faintest twitch of an amused smile pass over her face as she turned. He sighed in relief when Thor pulled the hammer away.

“Thus is the union sealed.” Frigga ushered the revelers out of the chambers. “Have a good night,” she said, and closed the door.

They sat next to each other on the bench, staring at the wall opposite. Neither spoke, but the tension between them was eloquent. Loki's stomach clenched, and he heard Thor swallow.

"Best to get this over quickly," his new husband said, standing, and with careless swipes of his hands his armor clattered off his arms and vanished mid-air. Loki was fascinated despite himself. He watched Thor's motions, trying to catch the spell-threads before they engaged and vanished with the armor, but the process was too quick for him to follow. Suddenly, Thor pulled off his tunic, baring his skin to the air.

Loki clenched his fists. He had not expected to find his new husband appealing, but fire- and candlelight suited Thor's pale coloring. It washed his milky skin gold, and the shadows emphasized the cut of muscle on his chest and stomach. His was a warrior's body. Were he Jötunn, Loki would have sought him out to bed him in a blink.

As things were...

"I'll not be the only one undressing," Thor said, his voice breaking through Loki's confused thoughts. He looked to Asgard's Prince. His tunic was crumpled in his fist, and his cheeks burned red. Loki looked down at himself. Jewelry aside, he already was half-naked, at least by Asgardian standards.

"And I have so far to catch up," he said, cocking his eyebrow. "But since you insist…" he slipped off the heaviest earrings, sighing and rubbing his earlobes at their release, and stood to lay them aside amidst the candles. The rest of his jewelry slowly followed. He gestured back to Thor. "By all means, continue."

Thor's eyes blazed. “I would look upon what is mine.” Loki slowed, and he eyed Thor. He sounded resolute, but there was something wavering and uncertain behind his eyes. Something defensive. Wedded or not, they were yet enemies, and in a burst of prescience, Loki saw that this was to be but the first skirmish in an oncoming personal war. He had few rights as concubine, but this was one of them. He could refuse--and if he read his husband aright, Thor would let him.

Thor's gaze sharpened as he began putting his jewelry back on. "What are you doing?"

"I will not lie with you tonight." Loki picked up his father's armband, brushing his thumb over the lightning bolts and pine needles worked into the gold. He slipped it back up his arm.

"It is our wedding night; you must lie with me. I would not have thought you afraid, but clearly--"

"I'm not afraid," Loki snapped. "But neither will I have my wedding bed become a battlefield."

Thor scowled. "Our marriage must be consummated."

"And it will be. As soon as I can stomach the sight of you."

The Odinsson opened his mouth to speak, but Loki cut him off. "Yes, I'm sure that sentiment goes both ways. Tell me, husband, are you so eager to sully yourself with the flesh of a jötunn that you would do it without consideration of my wishes? There is a word for that."

"If any of my enemies merited the klámhogg it would be you," Thor snarled. "However, we are wed. I will not shame my wife."

"I am not your wife," Loki spat.

"Consort, then!"

"Nor am I your consort. Your father made that certain."

Thor swore and threw his tunic at the wall.

Loki raised a brow. “Satisfied?”

Thor glared at him. “No.”

“That’s a shame. Perhaps you should try the vase, next.”

Asgard's Prince Royal could turn glowering into a fine art. Loki sighed. “This is useless. You are useless. This marriage will be over in a day if we carry on thus.”

“I see no downside to that.”

Loki shot him an annoyed glance. “I will not lose the Casket for my people so soon after I have won it.”

Thor threw himself into a chair, splaying his legs wide and scowling at Loki. “Then what do you propose we do, if we will not lie together?”

Loki considered his husband. He shook his head and turned back to the chest of drawers, and began once more to divest himself of his dowry. “I intend to make use of that very large bed and sleep. You may do as you will.” He laid the broadsword across the chest, then unwound the leather straps holding up the bearskin, letting it fall to the floor. He began to remove the plethora of rings that bound his fingers. He sensed the weight of Thor’s eyes on his back.

“Why do you wear so much jewelry?”

Loki slipped his wedding ring back over his newly-bare finger. He brushed his hand over the piercing in his navel, a blood-red ruby nestled at the center. “There is a story, told by my father’s people. They tell of two lovers, who loved each other more than the sea loves the moons. One day, one was captured by a rival tribe, and rather than kill him they ransomed him for all the gold his lover could carry. After extracting their solemn, Mother-sworn oath they would not harm him, the lover gathered all the gold he could carry, but instead of bearing it upon his back he had it woven into his flesh, that the raiders would not be able to remove it without killing him first. So impressed were they by his audacity that they took only a single ring, ripping it from his navel as repayment for his deceit. Thus it is that all the nomads living on the Glæsisvellir carry their dowries woven into their flesh, that it can only be removed by their free will or their death.” Loki touched Fárbauti’s armband. “I am blood of that blood, and I keep to the old traditions.”

Thor was silent. Loki continued, meticulously stripping himself of his gold and piling it in an ever-growing heap on the table. He sighed when he removed the chains suspended from his nipples, and pressed his palms against the beringed, inflamed nubs. Goosebumps rose along his flesh. He heard a small huff behind him, and turning, he saw that Thor’s face was flushing, and unless he very much missed his guess, the crotch of his trousers had tented slightly.

Well, if it was to be like that…

Loki smirked, and reached up to remove the sheaths from his horns. His horns were spiralled, and the sheaths forged for them so perfectly crafted that Loki was forced to twist them off to remove them, as of a screw from its housing. He laid them aside, then turned to Thor. “Instead of sitting uselessly all the way over there, why don’t you come here and help me with my hair.”

Thor frowned, narrowing eyes as though he suspected Loki of trying to hex him.

“Oh, for the sake of the Ancients. This is going nowhere unless we become more comfortable with each other. Now come here, I can’t get all these pins.” He sat down on the edge of the trunk, baring his braided head to Thor’s attentions. Thor considered a moment longer, then rose from his chair. Loki watched him out of the corner of his eye, following him as he drew nearer, until he was close enough to touch. He held back, however, his hands held awkwardly at his sides. Loki tsked and grabbed a hand, placing it on his shoulder. “I won’t bite,” he said. “Not unless you ask, first.”

He heard the click of Thor’s swallow, and he smirked. If he read Thor aright, and he was fair sure he did, he was no more a stranger to sex than was Loki--but if he had any acquaintance with the spicier variations, Loki would eat his dowry, gems and all. He thought this, and then he shivered, for Thor’s hands were in his hair, delicate and careful, picking out the jeweled pins holding the loops and coils of Loki’s coiffure in place. He dropped them on the bedspread, one by one rolled. Loki turned his head slightly, and saw Thor’s chest and belly close beside him. His skin was gilded with tiny hairs in the firelight, and Loki followed the darker trail that traveled down to disappear beneath the waistband of his trousers. The effect was surprisingly appealing. He savored the sensation of his hair being let down, and allowed himself to imagine the possibility of an easier marriage bed than he had feared.

Before long Thor had picked out the last pin and undone the last clip, and was reduced to brushing his fingers through Loki’s hair. He did it almost reverently, as though mesmerized by the silken weight of it. Loki felt his eyelids slipping closed, until the movement of Thor’s fingers slowed. “I think… that’s the last of them,” he said quietly.

“Mmm, don’t stop.” Thor’s fingers froze, and Loki opened his eyes. “That’s rather the opposite of what I meant,” he said.

Thor said nothing, seemingly at a loss for words, and Loki stood, turning to look at him. He looked nervous. Loki smirked. He reached out, and laid his open palm against Thor’s chest. The contrast between his milk-white skin and Loki’s own indigo-dark hand was stunning. Thor shivered; Loki lightly dragged his fingernails down his exquisite pectorals and abdominals. Goosebumps raised over Thor’s skin, and his nipples tightened.

“You see?” Loki said. “We can go about this the hard way, and be cheated of good fun, or we can… agree to set aside our differences, and find all the ways to make each other scream.” He tugged at the laces fastening Thor’s trousers.

“Loki, I…” The expression in Thor’s eyes was sorely conflicted.

Loki tilted his head, knowingly. “Are you honestly going to tell me you don’t find me strangely compelling? With my dark skin and,” he paused to flick the ring piercing his nipple, “exotic jewelry? Don’t you want to know, Thor, what it’s like, to bed a frost giant?” He leaned into Thor’s space, smelling his sweat and the musky heat of his skin. “Aren’t you curious, what I’ve got tucked between my legs?”

Thor groaned. “Yes.”

Loki suckled on his earlobe, savoring the ragged breath it tore from Thor’s lips. “Then why don’t you find out?”

Thor’s breath was hot on Loki’s neck, and its absence was shockingly cold. Thor backed away, his eyes blown and a flush beginning to creep down his neck. “Because I don’t trust you,” he said, voice hoarse. “And you don’t trust me.”

Loki let go of his seductive façade and appraised Thor with new eyes. “Not just an empty head, then, are you?”

Thor sobered immediately, back to his usual scowling self. “It’s filled enough to be wary of a frost giant getting close when he’s still armed.”

Loki looked down to the blades still attached to his belt, and the hilt just visible over the top of his boot. He gave a sardonic smile. “Perhaps later, then.”

“I will be a corpse in Náströnd before I let you touch me again.”

Loki was tempted to test his resolve, but he sensed he had pushed Thor far enough for one day. He waved his hand and turned away, facing back to the miniature dragon’s hoard scattered across the tabletop. “As you wish.” He swept the pins off the bed and added them to pile, as well as his daggers. His boots came off next, and he reached up to re-braid his hair in the simple plait he used for sleep. 

Then he unbuckled his belt. He heard a choking sound behind him, and turning, he saw Thor, eyes wide and panicked.

“I’m certainly not going to sleep in this, it’s far too fine for that,” he said, unwrapping his kilt. “And there’s plainly no other option. I’m afraid you’ll have to swallow down your lamentable prudery and endure.” He slipped the kilt from his hips and folded it over the lot. Thor, he saw, was carefully avoiding looking at him. Loki rolled his eyes and pulled back the covers. The bedsheets were made of silk of the finest grade; he slipped between them, and didn’t bother restraining his groan of pleasure.

Just like that, the stresses and pressures of the day pounced, and Loki found himself slipping into sleep. He was dimly aware of Thor starting to pace before he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details of the wedding came from the Viking Answer Lady's page on [Viking marriage and divorce](http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/wedding.shtml), which also has good information on betrothal negotiations (or _handsals_ ) for the curious. Clover's sacrifice is part of a ceremony called the _blót_ , which comes from the Old Norse word for "blood." [This journal article](http://www.academia.edu/2339330/Putting_the_Blood_Back_into_Blot_The_Revival_of_Animal_Sacrifice_in_Modern_Nordic_Paganism) addresses both the historical context of animal sacrifice and the modern controversy of its use in Norse Reconstructionist groups.
> 
> All the bits of verse they quote during the wedding feast/consummation are taken from the Þrymskviða, which is the one where Thor marries a frost giant (Þrym) to get his hammer back. No, this isn't symbolic at all, what are you talking about.
> 
> Náströnd in the myths is a region of Helheimr that is particularly unpleasant; compare it to the ninth circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. Oathbreakers, kinslayers, and the scum of Viking society were said to reside there after death, and their corpses were gnawed upon by the Níðöggr. Given that Hel is one of Loki's children and that therefore in this story she doesn't even exist, I chose to use Náströnd as the (highly anachronistic and counter to Viking worldview) Hell-equivalent. It's not my fault; Marvel (and 12th century Icelandic monks) Christianized it before I got there.


	4. Chapter 4

The less said about the next morning, the better. Thor woke in an ill temper, barely speaking full sentences as he shoved a packet of papers and a ring of keys toward Loki before storming off to the Foremothers only knew where. Loki read the papers, his eyes widening, and cautiously strung the keys to his belt. He looked around as he did, certain someone would come in and berate him for so great a presumption, but Thor had seemed... decided, in offering of them. He shrugged and gathered the scattered jewels of his dowry.

He slipped into his own chambers, lit with the gray light of pre-dawn, with his dowry cradled in the upturned bearskin. He folded it and stuffed it in the bottom of his wardrobe, and casting the sheaf of papers a final glance, slipped them inside the bundle, too. He shut the door and stepped back, only to be caught in a tremendous yawn. His stomach pinched in hunger. He dressed and slipped on an illusion, that he might explore the halls and find the kitchens.

It took him embarrassingly long to find them, though the simple bread and butter he pilfered, and the apple he chased it with, seemed reparation and more for his pains. He wandered as Gladsheim's bustle rose with the sun. He watched the Hrímthursar contingent rise and quietly depart, with little fanfare and no few hangovers. Laufey strode tall at the head of their formation, and he didn't look back once. Loki turned back into the palace, his heart shivering in his chest.

He contemplated Frigga's offer two nights previous, and having little else to occupy him but unpacking (a chore best left to Hevring), he decided to test her generosity. A mother for a mother, after a fashion. A servant pointed the way, and Loki found himself in a spacious workroom on the palace’s north face, set about with myriad looms and amidst great piles and skeins of wool, dyed all the colors Loki's besieged eyes could not fathom. Frigga was in the middle, sitting in state, surrounded by her retinue, and her loom was a mighty thing. Silence fell on the room as Loki entered. Eyes, untrusting and unwelcoming, took his measure. He squared his shoulders.

"Loki," the Allmother said. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

Loki masked his confusion. "You invited me, Honored Mother." The women around him tittered, and his cheeks burned.

"Ah," Frigga said, and she looked decidedly taken aback. Loki did not understand; had her invitation not been in truth? He felt embarrassment coil through him, and anger, for he the customs of these people were positively labyrinthine. He ached, for the single invitation he had received seemed to have been no invitation at all.

"Pardon my intrusion," he said, biting back the words. "I see I was in error." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Frigga said, her voice cracking through the whispers. "Come sit with me, Loki. You must forgive our rudeness, we don’t usually have menfolk here."

Loki filed that away, and stepped through the organized chaos of the workroom, doing his best not to step on anyone’s tools or tapestries. As he went, he noted the expressions of the women around him. Some stared, wide-eyed, at his bare chest; others glowered, and still more examined him head to toe like he were a specimen to be studied. He took special care to note which ones looked at him with lust in their eyes.

Frigga was standing before her loom, wearing a simple dress and her hair tied back in a plain knot. She made room for Loki to stand by her, and indicated the loom. “Have you ever used a weighted-weft loom?”

Loki eyed it. It leaned against the wall, and the weft fibers were held steady from their fastenings by heavy metal weights. Two rods ran the length of the warp, one held to the fore by anchors and the other tucked back against the weft, out of the way. He shook his head. “We use frame looms, on Jötunheim. Occasionally floor looms.”

Frigga nodded sagely. “Yes, those are good looms. This type is one used on Midgard. It’s more primitive than some--” she indicated a massive floor loom in the corner that a single, flame-haired woman was using to produce bolts of plain linen cloth, “--but less so than others.” She moved aside, that Loki could see the young girl seated on the floor by her side, using a tiny backstrap loom to make tapestried ribbon. “Weaving is somewhat of a hobby of mine, as you see.”

“I have little experience in it. Perhaps I might watch, rather than assist.”

Frigga inclined her head. “As you please.” She set to tying off the knots to the weft. “How are you, today?”

Loki watched her fingers on the threads. “Not so different from any other morning.” He weighted his words carefully.

Frigga gave him an unreadable glance. “Well and so. Just remember your wifely duties; clinging to the ways of bachelorhood will do you little good in the long run, I'm afraid."

"Doubtless that is so. Some things require care and patience to cultivate, however, and that takes time."

"Not too much time, Loki."

Loki inclined his head. "Allmother."

"Oh!" Frigga dropped the threads she was holding and turned to face him. I did mean to ask: how did you find your morning-gift?”

Loki stared at her blankly. Frigga's brow darkened.

"Did he not give them to you? By the Tree, that boy can be so thick-skulled." She held up a hand. "I'll speak with him today. You may need to rename it the evening-gift, but you will receive it one way or another. Oh, and the keys to his household, of course."

 _Ah_. "It seems, Honored Mother, that my husband did give me my morning-gift," Loki said, indicating the ring of keys at his belt. "I simply did not realize that was what it was called. Thor was... tired from the night before, I believe."

Frigga snorted, returning to her loom. "Your tact is commendable. I'm sure he was a right beast."

"It was not I who said it." Loki glanced to the tapestry. "If I may, I have a question about the morning-gift."

"Yes?"

Loki chose his words carefully. "The land and capital were most welcome, but--and I mean no disrespect, my lady, but I don’t understand why he gave me the keys. What do they signify on Asgard?"

Frigga's fingers were deft on the threads. "In Asgard, the wife holds a husband's keys. She is mistress of his household, and it is her domain; the keys are symbol of that power. Is this not so on Jötunheim?"

Loki reflexively looked down at the keys at Frigga’s waist. She wore the power of Gladsheim on her belt, a badge of rank as bold as any crown. “No, my lady. In my land, keys are given to confer or acknowledge power. The lesser spouse would give his keys to the greater, not the other way around.”

“That _is_ interesting.” Frigga took up a wooden paddle to snug her woven layer up to the budding length of cloth. “So many of our customs must seem strange, to you.”

“There are some that are. There are others more familiar.”

“Tell me of your homeland,” Frigga said. “I hear so little beyond what they tell in the great hall or the newsfeeds, and I’m afraid that is seldom complimentary.”

No, Loki didn’t imagine it was. He considered his words. Around him, he heard the tell-tale silence of listening ears, despite the seeming inattention of their owners. These handmaids of Frigga, they were very well-schooled. Loki spoke.

“They say my land is a wasteland. They say the wind scours away all sweet and gentle things, and that what the wind does not wither the ice will kill. They are not wrong. Jötunheim is harsh. He is uncompromising. He will take the unwary and kill him, for Jötunheim does not give second chances. He is hard, and his people, too, are hard. Our villages are in the fjords, tucked below the trade winds but above the storm surge; our cities are in the jagged valleys left in the glacier’s wake. We hunt the ice fox and the seal, the whale and the blue tor. We keep wolves to draw our sleds.

“We are seen as vicious, because we are. We are also seen as artless, but that is because our arts are subtle. We keep the Lore strong, for what is parchment, that can be burned, or rot away? As long as the Hrímthursar survive, so too will our past, and the hope of our future.”

Frigga pressed up a new row of threads. “They say your people have as many stories as there are stars in the sky. What story do you have for us, Loki?”

Loki looked around. Several of the women had abandoned their pretense, and were watching the conversation openly. He considered his repertoire. He opened his mouth, and he spoke:

“There was a time, Grandmother says, when animals could speak as we do. They decided to raise among them a king who would rule over all the creatures justly and rightly, and lead them well in the harshness of winter. Many coveted this honor, and fought mightily for it. Only three, however, were decided fit for the post. The first was a tor, the second a shrike, and the third a fox.

“Now the tor wasn’t the brightest of fellows, though he was certainly the strongest; he made this the basis of his claim. He went before the gathered animals and flexed his muscles and swung his armored tail, and showed them the sharpness of his horns. The animals were suitably awed.

“Likewise the shrike showed himself before the people as a stout martial leader. His talons were sharp, his beak viciously curved, and his larder was well-stocked with his kills. The animals quivered beneath his gimlet eye.

“The fox, however, was not so strong as the tor, nor as cruel as the shrike. Instead, he showed his cleverness through words and sleight of hand. The animals laughed, and sat enraptured by his illusion, but they all agreed he would make a poor king, for where was his strength and harshness of mind?

“That night, when all the animals were settling down for sleep, the fox crept up to the shrike’s nest. In it, he threw a stone. The shrike, thinking it was an attack, struck the stone with his beak. The stone was very hard, and much to the shrike’s dismay, he cracked his beak.

“‘Foul!’ he cried. ‘Most foul! Who has thrown this stone, knowing that I would attack it and damage my beak?’

“The fox, masking his voice, called from the shadows. ‘It was the tor, great one! I saw him come this way, light as a feather-fall! It was he that threw the rock, I swear!’

“The shrike, overcome with rage, began to shout to the heavens that the tor was motherless, and honorless, and many other very nasty things, indeed. In fact, he shouted so loudly that he roused the tor himself.

“‘What’s all this noise?’ said he, shaking off the brush that had caught in his horns. ‘I was trying to sleep, can’t you see that?’

“The fox slipped up close to the tor’s tiny ear. ‘It was the shrike,’ he said in confidence. ‘He said you were honorless, and motherless, and oh, so many things I cannot say, great one!’

“The tor took to his feet with a bellow and charged the shrike, for he was not one to think, but rather to ask questions after he flattened his foes. Now, normally the shrike would have used his beak to peck at the tor and heckle him sorely; but it was broken, and hurt far too much to use thus. And the tor, still half-asleep, was not as fast as he might have been. The shrike used his slow speed to his advantage, and stooped upon the tor, taking out his eyes with his talons. The tor, blinded and mad with pain, swung his tail to hammer the shrike. This he did, breaking the shrike’s wings--but he also tore apart many animals’ homes, much to their dismay. When the battle had finally ended, both the tor and the shrike were dead, and much of the town was smashed to bits.

“Into this void stepped the fox. He said, ‘I will help you clean up from this disaster, my people. I will not use my strength wantonly, as the tor did, or my battle-mindedness to start needless fights, as the shrike did. I will rule justly and rightly, and lead you well in the harshness of winter.’ The animals took him gladly as their king, for he had shown through his cleverness the faults of his foes.”

Loki sat back. “This is what we tell children who listen to gossip.”

There was a sudden flurry of activity around them, as the women listening in went back to their work. Frigga, however, had stopped weaving to give him a long look. “I do not think it is told only to eavesdroppers and gossipers,” she said.

Loki inclined his head. “Indeed not, Honored Mother. I told it that you might better understand my people. We honor the fox greatly, you see.”

“I do see. I will not make the mistake of underestimating you.”

Loki gave a small smile. “I did not imagine you would. That warning was not for you.”

Subtle amusement crossed Frigga’s face, and she returned to her loom. “For one with such strong words against gossip, you certainly know how to spread a rumor.”

Loki picked up a skein of wool, examining it. He had never seen so vibrant a shade of orange, before. “I said nothing about spreading gossip, merely the dangers of listening to it.”

Frigga laughed. “Yes, I think Thor will do well with you at his side. Provided he doesn’t fall into any of your traps.”

Loki grew serious. “So long as he doesn’t stand between me and something I want, I will do him no harm.”

Frigga paused again to examine him. “I can ask no more than that. However, you should know that if you do harm my son, for any cause just or unjust, I will strike you down where you stand.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a ruckus from the door. Small voices were raised in protest, and answered by deeper, adult tones; exasperated ones, by the sound of them. Frigga’s face lightened. “Ah, my sons!” She tied off her work and rose to collect her children. Loki craned his neck after her, curious; he was not the only one, for many of the women not occupied by their work also drew up to see. It seemed the young princes were greatly loved.

Frigga returned, carrying the two boys on her hips. One, the golden-haired child, was pushing outward in her arms, as though trying to be let down; the other, his darker-haired brother, was sitting quietly, watching all. She brought them to Loki. “These are my younger sons, Balder and Hoder,” she said. “Say hello, Balder, this is your new brother-in-law.”

Balder glanced at Loki, eyes wide, then buried his face in his mother’s neck. Frigga gave an affectionate eye-roll and turned to her other son. “Hoder, can you say hello to Loki?”

“Hello,” he said. “Are you a frost giant?”

Loki raised a brow. “I am. Are you an ás?”

Hoder seemed confused. “Can’t you tell?”

“He can, child, as easily as you," Frigga interrupted. "However, his point was that it's rude to ask so baldly. Better to say, ‘Where are you from?’ than to make others uncomfortable.”

Hoder blinked. Frigga jiggled her arm. “Also, my sweet, ‘frost giant’ is a rude word. The proper term is ‘hrímthurs,’ or the more general ‘jötunn.’”

Hoder mumbled the words to himself, before he, too, buried his face in Frigga’s neck.

“They are young,” Loki said. “Two hundred years?”

Frigga lowered herself down to the floor, upon a pile of cushions. Loki followed, tucking his legs beneath him and sitting back on his heels. “One hundred and ninety-four next week. Out, you little rascals, out! Face the day!”

They tumbled out of her arms like two puppies, and proceeded to tear around the workroom with all the vigor of youth. They obviously came here often, for they knew exactly which of the handmaidens had sweets for them, and which to avoid, and which were tolerant of their endless questions. Loki turned to Frigga. “I haven’t had much experience with children, except for my younger brother. He’s six hundred.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it overmuch,” Frigga said, prying Hoder out of her yarn basket before setting him to run loose once more. “Some things come naturally, when you have children of your own. And even if you don’t produce a child there is still an heir.”

The casual way she spoke of Loki bearing children set him off his ease. It had never been a condition he had thought of in regards to himself; if he was being honest, pregnancy sounded unpleasant in the extreme. Worse, he would be bearing more tiny Thors into the world. He shuddered to think of it.

He was disturbed from his rumination by Balder, who had slipped and fallen into his lap. His little body seared his skin; how did these Æsir stand it, this heat? Loki righted him, fully expecting him to go haring off into someone else’s business, but instead he stood stock-still and stared at Loki.

“You’re cold,” Balder said.

Loki blinked. “You’re hot,” he replied.

“No I’m not! I’m just right!”

“Well, to me you feel hot.”

He could see the curiosity pique behind the boy’s eyes. “Really? Is it because you’re so cold?”

Loki considered. “I suppose,” he said. “I come from a very cold realm, and most of the creatures there have thick fur, feathers, or fat to keep warm. I have none of those things. Do you know what I have?” He leaned close, as though imparting a secret.

Balder leaned in as well, eyes wide. “No!”

“I have magic. A magic innate to my people. We call it the _hrímskjöld_ , the rime-shield. It keeps our warmth beneath our skin, where it won’t be lost to the elements. I feel perfectly warm, you see; it is you alone that feels the chill.”

Hoder piped up from his mother’s lap. “I thought the rime-shield was a weapon, like a sword.”

“It can be used that way. Our warriors, they are taught to push it from their skin and form it into blades or bolts. That is but one use for it, among many; it can be used for much prettier things than just fighting. Look.” Loki closed his hands together and summoned his magic forth. It was sluggish, though not as it was on Álfheim. He focused his will, and pressed it into the shape he desired. Balder peered over his hands, and Hoder craned out from Frigga’s lap to get a better view.

“Oh, it’s wild chamomile,” Balder said, a bright smile spreading across his chubby cheeks. Loki twirled the sprig of ice around in his fingers, sunlight catching on its crystalline petals and refracting rainbows around the room. Balder cheered. Hoder, a much more serious child than his brother, looked on in silent, sober wonder.

“What else can you do?” Balder demanded. “Can you make it snow? Can you make a blade? What if you go to Múspelheim, can you still summon ice there? Do you have to always hold back the cold when people touch you?”

Loki reeled under the onslaught, and Frigga reached out to tap her son’s shoulder. “Fewer questions, _alskling_ , or at least not all at once.”

Balder’s face immediately turned contrite. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… fine,” Loki replied, going over the questions in his mind. “As for your answers, I can do many things, for I’m accounted a sorcerer among my people, and am not limited to the _hrímskjöld_ alone. Any child of Jötunheim can pull the frost. I, however, can do much more. I can make it snow--but that is my _seiðr_ , not the shield, and I can do it only if the land about me will permit. Yes, I can make a blade, bolts, and many other weapons, besides. That is actually quite simple, little more than what I did with the flower. I have never been to Múspelheim, but I doubt I would be able to summon the ice, there. I require some sense of chill about me, to manipulate its touch. And last of all, no, I don’t need to pull back the shield for others to touch me. It’s layered deeper within. My skin matches the ambient temperature, and the _hrímskjöld_ lies beneath. I must consciously draw it forth if I wish to use it.”

There were stars in Balder’s eyes. “Mother, I want to be a frost giant!”

“‘Hrímthurs,’ dear, and I’m afraid that’s a bit beyond my power to provide.”

“Worry about being yourself, for now,” Loki said. “You can worry about being others when you grow older.”

Balder frowned, puzzled, but it didn’t mar his young face for long; soon he was off again, racing about in his madcap, energetic way. Hoder, meanwhile, meandered over to where Loki knelt. “May I see the flower?”

“Of course. But one moment.” Loki pulled from a different well of power, this one constructed rather than in-born. He wove the spell, and cast it over the flower. The cold receded and it became as glass, right down to the drops of preserved condensation frozen mid-slide down the chamomile’s stem. “There,” he said. “Now it will not melt.”

Hoder received it like it was the finest jewel in the realm. His eyes were huge as he looked up to Loki. “Thank you,” he mumbled, and then he was back to his mother’s lap, staring at his treasure. Balder, having seen this exchange, howled in childish rage. “That’s mine! I want one, too!”

“Balder!” Frigga admonished. “Loki is not required to do anything for you. Apologize at once.”

Loki watched, eyes impassive, as Balder tried to fight a silent battle of the wills with his mother. Frigga would have none of it. “Apologize, child. Then ask Loki politely if he would not mind making another.”

Balder’s expression was sullen. “I am sorry for being rude,” he said. “May I have an ice flower like you gave Hoder?”

Loki narrowed his eyes, as though considering; Balder’s face grew worried. “Please? Please, Loki, I won’t be rude again, I swear!”

Unable to keep from smiling, Loki cupped his hands once more. “No need to fret, little prince; I am not so cruel as to demand penance of you. Here.” He cast the spell on the sculpture, and handed it to the waiting Balder.

Balder frowned. “What is it?”

Frigga answered. “It’s mistletoe,” she said. “An old symbol of fertility and vitality. It’s a very young-spirited sort of plant. Say thank you, Balder.”

“Thank you,” he said automatically, and wandered off, staring at his sprig of frozen glass.

“An odd choice,” Frigga said. “For both of them.”

Loki stared into the middle distance. “They felt right.” He shrugged.

Frigga looked down at Hoder, who was already starting to nod off. “It happens that way, sometimes.”

Loki didn’t reply, his thoughts caught by a sudden longing for home. Had his mother restored the Casket to its rightful place? He wished he could be there to see. It had seemed easy enough to sacrifice his experience of Jötunheim’s rebirth, but now that he had seen the wonder of the Casket he felt bereft. His _hrímskjöld_ , normally a comfort, served only to mock him with its weakness. The chill settling down from Asgard’s mountains was pathetic next to the raw burn of the wind over Útgard’s crags. He bowed to Frigga. “I apologize, Honored Mother, but I feel I have taken enough of your time.”

Frigga gazed upon him, a sad wisdom in her eyes. “Go,” she said. “Return when you feel it less keenly.”

Loki bowed and left her presence, and whispers followed in his wake.

Thus passed Loki’s first day of wedded bliss. His second night passed much the same as the first, if with less shouting and failed attempts at seduction. The dawn of the third day promised no different.

It was a promise quickly broken. Loki had planned, upon waking, to slip out of the bed the way he had the morning before and absent himself to his own chambers. Unlike the morning before, however, Loki woke not to the comfortable chill of silk beneath him, but to the sweltering heat of Thor’s arms around him.

He froze, staring at the dusting of hair on Thor’s chest. He couldn’t see Thor’s face from his position, but he heard the steady huff of his breath, and he spared a prayer of thanks to the Foremothers that he was still asleep. That did not, however, resolve his dilemma: he was trapped by the weight of Thor’s arms, and it would be more than a little difficult to extract himself without waking him, first. He tried to ignore how good he smelled.

Thor grunted sleepily at his first attempts to wriggle free, and only tightened his grip further. Loki cursed under his breath. He tried again, thinking to slip out from under the offending appendages instead of pulling away from them, but his plan backfired when Thor rolled over, flinging his leg over Loki’s and snugging their groins together. Loki had enough time to register the scratch of hair and the rigid press of Thor’s erection against his hip before he panicked and flared his _hrímskjöld_ against Thor’s unprotected flesh.

He came awake with a bellow. Loki tore out of his arms the minute they loosed him, and scrambled out of the bed. He pulled on his kilt with a wary eye on Thor, who was thrashing about in the sheets.

Thor finally pushed sleep aside as well as the covers, and stared down at the angry pink patches of frost-burn littering his arms, chest and legs. His cock, Loki was relieved to see with vindictive thrill, had softened. He stared at Loki, pain, confusion and budding anger trapped in his gaze. “What was that for!”

What an excellent question. “Touch me again, and I will do far worse.”

Thor stared at him incredulously. “I was asleep!” But Loki was already halfway out the door.

His rooms weren’t far from Thor’s, by ill-chance or good design, Loki wasn’t sure. At this point, he didn’t care; he wanted to be alone as quickly as possible, and the closeness of their respective chambers was nothing if not an unexpected mercy. He slammed the door behind him. There were still countless trunks and boxes piled in odd corners that he had ordered Hevring not to touch; scarcely a single seat was free but for one by the windows, covered in velvet and wonderfully soft. Loki sat down.

His reaction shocked him. He was no stranger to sex, or to the sensation of a phallus pressed in interesting places; Thor’s should be no different. Even now, the remembered sensation of his erection sliding against his flesh stoked instinctual fires, only for Loki to quell them with a sharp reminder of who it was he was fantasizing about. _What to do when you hate your husband but can’t help being attracted to him,_ Loki thought. _If only he were as empty-headed as he wishes I was._

Despite himself, he felt his own cock stiffening at the recollection. He clenched his hand, annoyed; a month dry, and already he was getting hard at the thought of an Asgardian cock. Another month like this and he’d let it fuck him. He shook his head in disgust.

Rather than touch himself to thoughts of Thor, Loki pulled himself from his funk and snagged the box closest to him. It was his notes on his most recent magical experiments. He reached over and dropped them on the desk for future filing. Thus started, the urge to settle into his new domain, to press a bit of Jötunheim into the gleaming gold of Asgard, rose in him. He stood, and went to the three trunks he knew held his knife collection. Those he levitated into his bedchamber. Gradually, the work of cataloguing and organizing drove Thor from his mind, and it wasn’t until the sun had crested and sunk past its apogee that he emerged from his task.

He looked around. His rooms finally showed signs of his habitancy: icy black and white Jötunn tapestries hung from the walls, a frozen sculpture of Ymir’s sacrifice was displayed on a prominent side table, and an entire chest of drawers was given over to displaying his knives. There were still boxes remaining, but Loki decided to leave them. He had but a few hours left until the evening feast, and the urge to explore the shining city of the Æsir overtook him. He changed his kilt, re-braided his hair, and applied a few of his finer jewels, then stepped out the door.

The light was crushing. Already Loki had forgotten the brutal weight of Asgard’s sun on his skin, seeming to tap against his _hrímskjöld_ like a hopeful prospector against ice. Loki felt his skin draw tight under the onslaught. He pulled the shield up into his skin and grinned, childishly pleased, as it flared rime across the paves with each step, and cast off trails of steam in his wake. The plaza was endless.

Beyond the Causeway and the wide boulevards that radiated from it, however, he saw the city was riddled with tiny alleys and pokey side-streets, all overshadowed by overstories and awnings. Loki slipped into the nearest such street, and let out a blissful sigh when the sun overhead vanished behind stone roofs. He released his _hrímskjöld_ and grimaced at the condensation it left dripping down his body. He twisted together strands of magic and pushed it off him in a spatter of rain, taking especial care to dry out his kilt, then let the breeze evaporate the rest. He looked up to the shops around him.

They were a marvel. Loki had traveled a fair amount in his youth, though never to Asgard; he had seen the Dwarven smithies on Niðavellir, and the great fields and wildlands of southern Jötunheim. He had even stolen a glimpse of equatorial Múspelheim before the molten heat had driven him back to the ice. He was no country rube, and yet the simple, alien familiarity of a street bazaar threw him even as it welcomed him in.

The awnings overhead were brilliantly striped, and the stalls were likewise draped in rich hues. New sounds and aromas tantalized him, and the promise of the new and strange pulled him in. He slipped into the flow of the crowd.

The air was full of the scents of roasting meats and the nutty, fragrant steam of a dozen hot beverages. Tables stacked with pyramids of fruits and vegetables creaked under the bounty. Loki stared at the endless rows of produce, shocked by the variety, and for so small a cost. The palate of Jötunheim was limited, composed of meat and what hardy vegetables could be coaxed from the alkaline soils of the lowlands. As Third Scion Loki had eaten more exotic fare than the commons, and in his travels he had sampled more; but he had only read of half of these crops, and the rest were utterly beyond him. He had never heard of an orange before, yet here there was an entire stall devoted to selling them and their products. He handed over a coin, and took a bag of ripe fruit in exchange. Loki’s flare of resentment at the Vanir merchant’s tremulous, fearful explanation of how to eat them vanished upon tasting the first pulpy segment. Sour-sweet juice burst over his tongue, and he felt his eyes widen. “And the foolish say Idunn’s apples are chief among fruits,” he declared. He chased the juice down his fingers.

“I wouldn’t let Idunn hear you say that,” a new voice cut in, and Loki looked up from his torrid, frugivorous affair.

A woman, judging from the swell of her bosom, stepped up beside him. She was dressed exquisitely, and though Loki knew little yet of Asgardian fashions, he had no doubt that her clothes were of the very latest. Her dark, smooth hair was coiled up in a complicated knot, perfect down to the tendrils of hair that slipped out to frame her face, and dark, epicanthic eyes gazed knowingly at him from above broad, sweeping cheekbones. She was Vanic, and likely not a tourist if her clothes and familiarity with Idunn's apples were anything to go by. That left expatriate, dignitary, or political hostage-cum-bride such as himself.

Her perfect, petal-shaped lips parted, and she said, “The Orchard-Mistress is jealous of her yield, my Lord Loki. Proud as I am of Vanaheim’s citruses, I would be cautious of overpraising them. Asgardian apples are sold just two stalls down.” She pointed, displaying her immaculate manicure. Loki followed her finger, and saw a stall that was, indeed, piled high with apples of every possible coloration. He turned away in favor of examining his new companion.

She knew him by name. There were no other Hrímthursar on Asgard, so it was no great chore to recognize him as Thor’s new concubine--however, to call him by name left dignitary or political wife, either of whom would be more in tune with the political shadings of court than a mere émigré. She wore Asgardian clothing, which suggested the latter; however, she did not wear the finger rings of Asgardian marriage or the earrings of wedded Vanir. Loki was intrigued. He bowed.

“I find myself at a disadvantage, my lady, for you know me but I cannot say the same of you.”

She smiled, a simple, mischievous expression that set her eyes to twinkling. “I imagine you know more of me than you let on, my lord. After an examination like that, I'm sure the only thing left to me is my name.”

Oh, Loki liked this woman. Unlike the idiots around them, she did not glare at him or cower away in fear. He smiled. “Ah, but no one can truly take another’s name, if it is freely given.”

She laughed a sultry, artful laugh. “Only if one isn’t speaking to a sorcerer.” She looked around, then leaned close. “I’ve heard rumors, my lord, of your… prowess in the subtler arts.”

Another clue slotted into place. She was a sorcerer herself; few but sorcerers referred to the art in such terms, or knew the value of names. Loki’s mind raced. “It’s foolish not to cultivate skill in multiple fields, I have found, for ignorance and spellcraft make poor bedfellows. Are you sure you won’t tell me your name?”

The bashful incline of her neck was anything but. She looked demurely at the ground. “Such a liberty that would be,” she said. “My brother surely would object.”

Loki smiled, triumphant. He bowed again. “Then I am sorry, my Lady Freyja, for placing you in so awkward a position as to call your honor into question.”

Her answering smile was equally conspiratorial. She waved an airy hand. “My honor is as stout as anyone’s. I doubt you could do it any damage that I couldn’t do myself.” She fingered the magnificent amber necklace that cupped her throat. Her fingers stilled. “Tell me, my Lord Loki, do you often come to the Central Market?”

If Loki knew one thing of the House of Njörd, it was how highly they were placed in Asgard’s court. Freyja should know, then, that he had been on Asgard for barely four days. His attention sharpened. “It is my first opportunity, I must confess. Have you a better place in mind?”

Freyja glanced pointedly over his shoulder before returning her gaze to his. “Perhaps somewhere a bit less crowded? Tensions sometimes run high, when there’s no outlet for them.” She ran a finger along the edge of his father’s armband. “Lightning and pine. I see you bear your parents’ sigils, despite their misfortunes.”

“I see you shun ignorance as I do, my lady,” Loki replied. He was curious to find her intimate knowledge of his household didn’t disturb him. But then, Vanaheim had always been on cordial terms with the Hrímthursar, unlike their more obstreperous celestial neighbor. “I bow to your superior wisdom. I will go wherever you lead.”

She smiled and took his arm. “Excellent. The dinner hour is close upon us, what say I accompany you back to the palace, that we might continue our conversation?” She turned in such a way that he caught a glimpse of the scene behind him. A number of Asgardian youths stood clustered in the entrance to an alley. Their eyes were locked on Loki, and their expressions were forbidding.

Loki gave a wry grin. “It would be preferable to staying, I think.”

“It is hard, weaving peace in Asgard," she said as they left the orange-seller. "I admire your devotion to duty. I find it hard enough stomaching Thor on the few occasions I am required to; I cannot imagine him as a husband.”

“I’m not sure I can speak on that score, myself.”

Freyja’s laugh was sudden and unstudied; more than one passing glance caught on her, Loki saw. She sobered quickly. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the dangers of such a position.”

Loki eyed her. “Such concern for my well-being. I’m touched.”

She gave him gentle smirk. “To the contrary. Your presence pulls the isolationists’ attentions from myself and my family. You do us a great service, and I’m anxious for it to continue.”

Loki felt his heart plummet into his stomach. “Is Asgard’s alliance with Vanaheim is not all it claims?”

Freyja waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, no, it’s perfectly sound on the Allfather’s part. However, Odin is not the only voice in Asgard--merely the strongest.” She patted his arm. “I assure you, if Odin Borsson treats with your people, he will hold to his word. It’s a matter of honor.”

Loki frowned over the stalls. “I suppose that’s some small comfort.” They emerged from the protecting shelter of the awnings, and Loki handed her the bag of fruit. “You might want to let go of me, now.”

It was to Freyja’s credit that she did not question, merely loosened her grip. Loki stepped back and pulled the _hrímskjöld_ over his vulnerable flesh. Frost licked the pavement at his feet.

“I’ve not seen a hrímthurs use the shield against sunlight, before,” she said.

Loki squinted up at the hateful sun. "Then you've never seen a hrímthurs in the sun, before."

“Hmm. That’s true. Do you sweat, my lord?”

Loki shook his head. “We do not have sweat glands. What would be the point? Our world is plenty cold, we don’t need to cool ourselves further.”

“Ah, then this is how you keep cool in warm environments?”

“Either that or shapeshift, but I’ve not yet tried an Æsir form.”

“Hmm. I’d be cautious with that, the Æsir have a dim view on most _seiðr_.”

“I understood that prohibition was limited to the men of their species?”

Freyja shrugged. “It’s seen as demeaning to their men, yes, and thus I am largely free from scorn--but you, my Lord Loki, are a special case. You appear as a man to their eyes, and are subject to censure.”

Loki’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “But I am not a man.”

Freyja stepped close, and Loki could see the enchantment she wove to protect herself from his cold. “Oh, to be a single-sex species,” she murmured, running her finger down the center of his chest. “I find myself curious, my lord, how our society must look to you. Always the fuss of him or her, skirts or trousers, inheritance through the mother or father; it’s a miracle, really, that we get anything done.” She looked up at him, her eyes hooded. “I would dearly love to explore our differences as… thoroughly as possible. Wouldn’t you?”

A tendril of heat curled up through Loki’s abdomen, and he breathed deep the scent of her perfume. It had been a very long time. Since Skadi, in fact. “Understanding differences is essential to intercourse, my lady. Truly, our realms could only benefit from furthered relations.”

Freyja smiled. “I’m glad you agree. Now is it the temperature that bothers you, or just the sun?”

Loki blinked at the sudden change of topic. “Merely the sun. It is very bright, and heavy on my skin.”

With a sensuous roll of her shoulders Freyja shrugged off her cape and handed it to him. It was embroidered with falcon feathers along the hems. “Wrap that about you, my Lord, and you will find yourself less damp from melted frost.”

Loki took it, giving her a long look before throwing it about his head and shoulders in a makeshift hood. It was very warm, but at least it kept the sun off him. He released the _hrímskjöld_ ; Freyja resumed her post by his side.

“What do you think of Asgard, thus far?” she asked. “I’ve always felt it much too built up; the earth can hardly breathe, beneath all this stone.”

Loki paced beside her, suddenly grateful for her presence. “It is very bright. And hot. All of you are so warm to the touch, like firebrands. I held one of the younger princes for a time yesterday, and I thought he would burn me, there was so much heat in his little body.”

Freyja raised her free hand, clenching and flexing her fingers. “I’d never thought of that. It is cooler, here, to me. My homelands in Vanaheim were along a tropical coastline. The waters were incredibly clear, so clear you could see the ocean floor hundreds of fathoms below as though it were mere ells. The water was always warm. I swam every day as a girl, and I learned the tides and the names of the fish before I could properly hold a sword.”

“Such ease with water is strange to me," Loki said. "The oceans of Jötunheim are dangerous even for hrímthursar. Our fishermen often die from exposure. Though, perhaps that will change with the return of the Casket.”

“Hmm. You do not look as though you come from so harsh a world, my Lord.”

Loki huffed a laugh. “I survived childhood on my deceptive appearances.”

Freyja raised a brow. “Surely the court of Útgard is not so dangerous as that?”

“No, it’s not much worse than Asgard, I’d wager. But I am cursed with curiosity, and it served me poorly as a child.”

“That sounds like a story and a half. I would like to hear it, someday.”

Loki fought against the stiffening of his spine. “Few are pleasant.”

“I can imagine.”

Loki stopped dead at the foot of the palace threshold. “I sincerely doubt that, my Lady.” He met her dark eyes with a frank, unapologetic stare. “I killed my first man when I was four hundred and fifty years old. He was a Dwarven bandit, and I was curious to see who was trying to cross the Ribs in the middle of the thaw. He took me as a slave, and I pushed him down a crevasse the first moment I got. I nearly followed. I still have scars from the jagged edges of the ice.”

Freyja bowed. “I apologize. It was ill-done of me to speak lightly of your trials.”

Loki stared at her a moment longer, then broke away to climb the stairs. He heard her footsteps behind him. His need to correct her, to share preciously guarded secrets, unsettled him. Freyja seemed to sense his confusion, for she said nothing until they reached the rotunda beneath the peak of Gladsheim.

“I’ll leave you here, my lord,” she said. “The third day of your feast is soon to begin, and I should take this time to look my best, shouldn’t I?” She smiled coyly.

Loki couldn’t help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He took the bait. “There’s very little you could do, my Lady Freyja, that would raise your already sublime beauty to greater heights. It is already far beyond the reach of simple cosmetics and clothes.”

“Oh, but I love them anyway,” Freyja said, waving away Loki’s words. “I request only you return my cape, that my tender Vanic hide might not catch chill in the cold of Asgard's autumn nights.”

Loki unwrapped it from his person with great ceremony, folding it precisely before returning it to Freyja’s waiting hands. “Many thanks, my lady. It is perhaps a fashion I will take on.”

“I was glad to oblige,” she said, and reached up to press a kiss to his cheek. She pulled away and was halfway across the rotunda in a cloud of woody perfume. She glanced over her shoulder at Loki, and Loki gazed after, idly contemplating what he and she might get up to the next time they met.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sif, who glared at him from across the hall. She said nothing, but her eyes followed Freyja’s retreating back, and she stared accusingly back at Loki. Loki gave her a flat stare. He had no time for jealous, overprotective warrior-maidens thwarted in their matrimonial pursuits. He brushed past her, careful to let his _hrímskjöld_ flare as he did, and climbed the stairs to his chambers.

***

“Sif said she saw you with Freyja, today. She said you kissed.”

Loki turned to regard his husband. Thor stood beside him in the empty hallway, awaiting their entrance to the feast hall. Mjölnir was at his belt but his hands were ready at his sides. Loki smiled. “She is quite a lovely woman, wouldn’t you say?”

Thor’s face darkened. “You hold our vows so cheaply?”

“If you and Sif say so, then it must be I do.”

“You will act in a manner as befits my wife, Loki. I will not be made fool of.”

“No, you do that quite well, yourself.”

The sound of leather creaking was loud between them. Thor grabbed Loki’s arm and swung him about, and glared at him. “I swear it, jötunn, I will gut you if you try anything with that woman.”

“Why? Afraid I might cuckold you? Whyever would I do that, dear husband? I’m sure you’re exquisite in bed. I must be the luckiest person in all of Asgard, to be wedded to you; no doubt there are hundreds of girls masking their lack of maidenhood on their wedding day, and daydreaming of their precious prince.” He heard Thor growl, and a tiny voice cautioned him to stop--but it was too late. The words had already fallen out of his mouth. “It’s not like your own mother is faithful, you saw how she was eyeing Vili this morning--”

The sound of the slap echoed through the corridor. Loki blinked, cross-eyed; when his vision cleared, Thor’s livid face loomed before him.

“Don’t you ever say that about my mother again.”

The fanfare to announce them cut through the moment. Loki glared daggers at Thor, took his hand, and entered the hall. The myriad faces blurred before his unseeing eyes.

He sat down to the feast with fury in his heart. He shared the Bridal Mead, as was expected of him; he sat beside Thor in his formal, spangled attire, as expected of him; he nodded at Abjörn’s uninspired conversation, applauded the skald, and paid deference to the Allfather, all as expected of him. Underneath, however, he seethed. His cheek burned.

Beside him, Thor was laughing at Fandral’s joke, stuffing his face with everything in reach. He was boisterous, full-up of pride and self-satisfaction. The smug hubris of the conqueror oozed from his pores, and the whole room sensed it. Loki’s cheek stung.

He picked at his food. It was fish, tonight; light, flaky, perfectly cooked and dressed in a light cream sauce and with a dozen other, bold, piquant flavors he couldn’t identify. The only thing humble enough for his palate was bread with butter. Beyond Abjörn, he saw Freyja giving eyes at Od, who was lost in dreamy thought and utterly oblivious. He considered prodding the idiot awake for her.

He felt the weight of eyes on him, and knew what they were thinking. He viciously speared his fillet. Thor would pay. His humiliation had been private, and that alone had kept Thor alive--but he would pay.

He flicked his hand under the table, and nudged Thor’s goblet a few inches just as he reached for it. It spilled across Sif’s lap. She jumped up, shocked, and Loki reveled in the stunned look on Thor’s face. His apology was not as inept as he would have liked, however.

He made sure to ruffle up the air before Sif’s feet as she left the hall. She stumbled, and her cheeks, when she finally left, were flaming red. Thor’s merriment was curtailed, however, when his chair collapsed under his weight. He took it admirably well, damn him. He laughed, and apologized to Frigga for ruining her furniture, and summoned the servants for another.

Frigga gave Loki a tight look. He cut his losses for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Thor three days to figure out the random accidents and small humiliations that followed him were Loki’s work. If he was being fair, Loki conceded that at least Thor didn’t jump to conclusions. He was suspicious the second time he tripped over thin air, and began to side-eye Loki the third time his cape caught in a closing door; but he didn’t accuse Loki of any foul play until a servant stumbled into Thor, dumping his tray of food down Thor’s newly polished armor. That Loki hadn’t been able to stifle his laugh hadn’t helped matters. The look on Thor’s face, however, had been priceless.

“Loki!” he bellowed, and a hundred eyes turned to look. Loki straightened. 

"Yes, Thor?"

They stood in the broad, light-filled gallery that traced the southern walk of the palace and overlooked the gardens. Thor glared at him, backlit by the sun shining through the windows. The silence in the wake of his shout had drawn tight as a bow.

Loki found himself resting one hand upon the pommel of his dagger. He threw an insolent swagger in his walk and stepped out of the shadows. The clatter of his jewelry and the sough of his wrapped cloak against the flags were the loudest sounds in the hall. He bowed to Thor. "My Lord husband. What do you require of me?"

Thor's expression was one of conflict and anger. Loki cast his eyes down demurely; one of Thor's hands was clenched in a fist. "You will accompany me to the training yards," he finally said, his voice uneven. He turned, his cape billowing red and bloody behind him, and Loki stared daggers after him.

He could not countermand a direct order from his husband. From his owner. He stalked down the hall in Thor's wake, glaring at all who stood watching. Their faces were blank, angry, mocking. Some were pale-faced with fear.

Thor's friends were of this last group. Loki sneered at Sif. His horns threw jagged shadows across their faces as he passed. They fell about him almost as a guard; Loki's blood boiled, and his fingers twisted into fists to keep from casting bane-craft upon them all. He composed his face into a serene, blank mask. 

Thor led them through the center of the palace, down the axis corridor that bisected the east wing from the west, and which formed the root of the Causeway that arrowed toward the Watchman's observatory. Thor took to the stairs, paying no mind if Loki followed; their steps echoed down the stairwell in a clatter.

The gilt and glory of Gladsheim faded here, outside the public eye; the fixtures became utilitarian, the doorways unadorned. Loki found himself looking about curiously despite himself; the rooms seemed little more than storerooms. He knew Frigga's workshop was several floors above, but it had never occurred to him that its position was deliberate: they passed more than one room full of bales of raw wool and silk, and countless other, more unfamiliar fibers. There were also offices, filled with the administrative drones that maintained the palace hive. All parted before the Crown Prince, bowing respectfully and staring at Loki when they rose.

Soon the storehouses were filled with weapons and armor, and the drones leaving the offices wore Einherjar yellow. Loki sniffed the air; he smelled sweat and the stink of the smithy, the sharp tang of healing herbs overlaid the heavy scent of water. This must be the palace armory.

They spilled from the palace onto a balcony overlooking a vast, high-walled courtyard, bare save the einherjar drilling with glaives. The sergeant called a halt as soon as he saw Thor round the corner. Thor acknowledged their salute, and gestured they continue their drill; for himself, he stalked down the stairs and crossed to the empty ground on the far side of the yard. He turned to Loki. His coterie flanked him, and five pairs of eyes glared into Loki's own.

"I cannot challenge you to _hólmganga_ , nor name you _niðingr_ , without voiding our marriage oath," Thor said quietly, his anger tamped back into a simmer. "But I will not allow you to make a fool of me, Loki." He pulled Mjölnir from his belt. "I demand satisfaction."

A shiver ran down Loki's spine. His gaze flicked to Thor's companions; their faces were impassive. "How exactly do you plan to get it?" he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

It was Sif who spoke. "An informal challenge is marked by three bouts. Each bout lasts till first blood or until one or the other yields. Both parties may select one weapon; if that weapon breaks, they may select another. If the second weapon breaks, they must fight barehanded. There are no strikes to the eyes or groin. There is no biting. There is no sorcery, and you will not use the rime-shield. Do you agree to these terms?"

Loki considered. Thor was watching him, his face set in firm lines of disgust. Loki fingered his knives. "How do I get my weapons?"

"If you do not wish to use your own, you may request them of any man present, aside from your opponent."

"And the winner of the bout will either be vindicated or absolved of charges, depending on the outcome?" he asked.

Sif nodded. "That is so."

"Then I agree to the terms," Loki declared, and cast back his cloak. The Warriors Four stepped away, outlining the ring, and Loki began to slip off his jewelry. After a moment's consideration removed his long knives as well. This fight would not befit them. He laid them gently beside his father's armband. He looked to Thor for his cues. 

On the other side of the marked ground Thor was shaking out his arms, and scale armor fell down from the seam of his breastplate to cover them. Fish chowder still stained his stomach and hip, though it had mostly dried. He didn't seem to be making any elaborate preparations, and Loki curled his lip at the inelegance of it all.

By this time they had drawn the attention of the einherjar, and a small crowd gathered about the yard. Loki ignored them and stepped forward to take his measure of the ground. He looked up; the bulk of the palace reared overhead, blocking out the sun. He scuffed his feet; the pavers were rough, with good traction. He looked to the guards filing around them, watching; he turned to one of those standing behind him. "I would have your glaive."

The man hesitated, looking to Thor; he only relinquished it at Thor's nod. Loki took it wordlessly. He ran his hands over the shaft, and sent his sorcery searching after. The wood was sound, the tang sturdily set. The metal in the blade rang true, when he struck it. The man scowled, but kept his silence. Loki smirked at him.

He turned back to the ring, hefting his new weapon. The balance was exquisite. He spun it forward experimentally; a heavy iron cap at the butt end served to counterbalance the blade. He nodded in satisfaction. He planted it and looked to Thor.

His husband was ready. Together they looked to Sif. She drew her sword, and held it out into the center of the ring. "Do you both give your solemn oath to uphold the rules of the bout?"

Loki bowed. Thor said, "I do."

Sif gave them both one, last glance, then whipped her sword up and stepped out of the way. "First bout, walk!" she called.

Loki struck before she even finished the words, lunging forward and launching the shaft of his glaive through his fingers to catch against the cap at the end. The blade speared toward Thor's belly; he only just managed to bat it aside. The reverberations rang up the shaft to Loki's arm. Rather than drop it, he yielded to the momentum of the blow and swung it overhead, letting it slip back to center. Thor glared, red-faced. A murmur ran through the crowd surrounding them, and Loki caught the coppery scent of coins changing hands.

First blows were exchanged. Thor fought cleanly, and hit hard. Loki grinned wolfishly. 

The first bout proved little more than a test of each other's mettle. Loki compared it to the choreographed bouts of Útgard, with the familiar steps and acknowledgement of the beauty and grace of combat, but it barely measured up. This was altogether too crude. He dodged a blow from Mjölnir and lashed out, only to have his glaive knocked aside for the third time. The blade threw sparks where it screeched against the flags. He almost caught Thor with the iron cap on his backstroke--but he miscalculated his step and instead walked into Thor's elbow. His vision flared white. Distantly he heard Sif's voice calling first blood.

His eyes cleared, reflexive tears slipping down his cheeks. He wiped away the blood dripping down his upper lip. He heard laughter about him; he saw sneering and triumphant faces before him. He narrowed his eyes and rose to his feet. He wiped the blood off on his kilt. The glaive was smooth and heavy in his hand as he bowed to Sif.

"Second bout, walk!"

This time he let Thor come to him. He had the advantage of reach; let Thor overreach himself. He spun his glaive and taunted Thor with subtle, calculated openings in his guard.

When the end came, it came in an eyeblink. Thor launched himself at Loki, swinging his hammer like a windmill toward his unprotected head. Instead of blocking the strike, Loki dropped his arms and spun inside Thor's guard. There was enough time to see the surprise on Thor's face before Loki whipped his head around, swinging his braid in a vicious arc to slap Thor in the face. Thor, focused wholly on Loki's glaive, never saw it coming. He reared back in shock, and Loki seized his cape, his lovely, bloody red cape, with both hands and yanked him backwards. Thor fell against the flags with an almighty thump. Loki stomped on the hand that held the hammer, and slid the blade of his glaive against Thor's cheek. His alien blue eyes cleared as a trickle of blood ran into his beard.

The courtyard was in silence. Loki gazed defiantly around the ring, to the watching einherjar. "Second blood," he called, his voice ringing against the stone walls. He touched his nose; it was swelling.

He waited as Thor hauled himself off the flags, rubbing the back of his head. He looked down at his dust-covered cape; he gave an exaggerated shrug, and it drew up and vanished into his pauldrons. His scowl was fit to burn Loki where he stood.

Sif held out her sword. "Third bout, walk!"

The previous bouts had been gentle and kind. Loki's blood was up, and Thor, always ready for a good fight, finally let loose. They came together with a fury that rang through the yard. The ring of metal on metal, of metal on stone, of metal cracking through treated, hardened wood--

Loki looked down at the splintered halves of his glaive, then back up at Thor. Blue eyes blazed.

"Hold!" Sif interposed herself between them, and pushed them back. "You may now take your second weapon," she said to Loki. Loki cast the broken glaive aside.

"I do not take a second weapon," he said. Whispers rose about them, and even Sif frowned, her gaze flicking over to the daggers lying on Loki's discarded cloak.

"Are you certain?" she asked, caution clear in her voice.

"Yes." Loki glared at Thor.

Thor sneered. "I will not fight an unarmed opponent," he declared. "It is already too uneven a fight." Laughter rose at this, though it was muted and scattered. "I cede my weapon." He lowered Mjölnir to the ground; Loki swore he felt the flags groan under the weight. Good.

Sif shrugged, and held out her sword. "Walk!"

Thor attacked like a bolt from a blue sky. One moment he was glaring at Loki over Sif's sword, the next moment Loki was winded by a sneaking uppercut. Thor gave him no time to recover, instead wrenching his head back by the horns and punching him square in the face. Loki rolled with the blow and twisted out of his grip, rolling away to his feet. He caught his breath just in time for Thor to tackle him to the ground.

Pavement scraped against the bare skin of his shoulders, and he gritted his teeth. His hands slipped against the metal covering Thor's arms. Thor wrenched his wrist back into a joint lock; instead of fighting it, Loki relaxed into it, letting his flexibility carry the day. He melted against Thor; Thor's eyes widened as Loki wrapped his legs around his hips and undulated.

There. Thor's grip slackened, and Loki twisted his weight to flip out from under him. Thor lost his grip; Loki wrenched away with a punch of his own to Thor's face. He stepped back, panting. His cheek throbbed counterpoint to his nose and scraped back. He settled into a ready stance as Thor got to his feet, face bright red and furious.

Loki didn't give him time to think. He spun into a series of spinning kicks, driving Thor back, and listened for the rhythm of the battle. It was there, hidden beneath the artless brutality the Æsir layered into their war-games, and it was his to exploit. He danced. Thor found his feet, and Loki knocked him back with a kick to the head. He spun himself into a backflip just for the fun of it, and launched into in a cartwheel to follow Thor's retreat and land another kick at him. He came down, fists at the ready to finish the fight, but Thor was already gone.

Loki spun, shocked. He had enough time to see Thor catch hold of his braid before he was yanked off his feet. A stunning blow to his floating ribs followed, and Loki found himself dragged back upright by his braid. Thor spun him around to face him and smashed his forehead into Loki's nose.

He howled. Once again tears blinded him, and Thor took him down to the ground, this time grinding him face-first into the flags. “Do you yield?” he demanded. _Fuck you and all your ancestors,_ Loki thought. He bucked and scorpion-kicked Thor in the ear. Thor reared back, roaring; it was enough for Loki to slip free. He rolled to his feet--but Thor recovered too quickly, and pulled his leg out from under him. Loki crashed down to the unyielding stone, trapping his arm beneath his body. He gasped in pain.

Thor pounced. He pinned him thoroughly, snugging a knee up against his groin and threatening to dislocate his free elbow. Loki stared up at Thor, and Thor stared down at him. "Yield!”

Loki looked over Thor's shoulder, and widened his eyes as though he had seen a ghost. Thor turned to look, his grip loosening; Loki twisted loose and headbutted him. A fully-grown jötunn's forehead is a formidable thing: a plate of solid bone, absent any delicate sinus cavities and reinforced to support flamboyant horns. Even a blow done at the disadvantage of leverage was not to be taken lightly. Thor flailed back, lips cut open on his teeth, and Loki wriggled free. "Third blood," he rasped, and got to his feet. 

Once more silence echoed through the yard. What faces Loki could see, blurred as they were through his tears, were impassive. The Einherjar were no strangers to fighting Hrímthursar, but Thor was their hero; Loki couldn't imagine they'd take it well, his having defeated him twice in a row. Beside him, Thor climbed to his feet, touching his torn lips. His expression, when he raised his head to look at Loki, was terrible. Loki looked over to Sif. "Well?"

Her countenance was black. "The challenge is yours."

"Lovely. Now if you'll excuse me--"

Thor threw out his hand, and with a hum like a dynamo Mjölnir flew back to his grip. He advanced on Loki. "I swear by the Tree I will lay you low, frost giant," he snarled, raising the hammer and baring his bloody teeth.

"Do it," Loki hissed, thrusting his face toward his. "Defy the laws of the challenge. You gave your oath, Thor. Will you break it?"

Thor stared at him, furious and impotent and exquisitely aware of the witnesses about them. He lowered his arm and let Mjölnir slide through his grip. "We are not done here," he said.

"No. I'm sure we'll have many happy centuries to discuss it." Loki turned to Sif, gesturing to the watchers. "If you don't mind?"

She scowled. "Go," she called to them. "There is nothing more to see." Slowly they dispersed, returning to their previous activities. More coin changed hands. Doubtless someone was growing very rich, indeed, and there were rather more mutterings than Loki felt easy with. He wiped at the mixture of snot, blood and tears that smeared his face.

"Ugh. Where's the nearest healer?"

***

_Identity: Third Scion Býleist Laufeyjarson, confirmed. Commence message replay._

Hello again, Little Bee. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm your big brother and it's my job to say nasty things you don't want to hear. Nurse is not a witch, a troll, or a demon, nor is he to be ignored when you feel like. He is your nurse, and he means well.

That said, I think he smells funny, too.

You want to know what Asgard is like, little brother? I haven't the words or the time. It is... incredible. For all that the people are short, they certainly compensate with the height of their buildings. Gladsheim, the royal palace, is twice as tall as Útgarda-Keep, and thrice as wide. I've been here a week and I'm still finding new rooms and galleries.

Today I visited the armory. Well, I say armory; it's a combination smithy, hospital, and barracks for the House Guard. I hear there's another, even larger complex by the north gate for the bulk of the Einherjar, a military academy near the east gate, and a naval compliment by the harbor. All that just for the capital city. They're a ferocious bunch, these Æsir, and not afraid of showing it.

Oh, and if you want to hide from Nurse there's cubby-hole in the hall outside the conservatory. He doesn't know about it, yet, and you should be able to fit in it for a couple more centuries at least. Don't tell anyone I told you.

Keep this crystal safe, alright? They're expensive and fragile, and I know how you are with your toys.

With the Fox in our hearts,

Loki

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

Loki was finishing his correspondence when Thor barged into his rooms.

"Why aren't you in our chambers?" he demanded.

" _Your_ chambers, you mean," Loki said, refusing to remove his attention from coding the message crystal. "My chambers are here. Which you are in, uninvited."

"They are ours for the duration of the mead month, which, I might remind you, we owe yet two more weeks. Now, come. It is time for bed."

Loki set the crystal down and gave Thor a level look. "I will come when I am ready, and that is not now. Are you a child, to be so ill-mannered?"

With precise deliberation Thor pulled one of the chairs and placed it before Loki, then straddled it. He crossed his arms over the back and stared bloody murder into Loki's eyes. "Ill-mannered is the very least of what I can be," he growled, "for I am no child. You would do well to remember that."

Loki found his face curling into a grimace of absolute disbelief. "Was that supposed to be a threat? That wouldn't scare a babe in the woods!"

In a heartbeat Thor knocked over the chair and pinned Loki to his desk with one meaty hand about his throat. "Then tell me how this strikes you,” he snarled. “I would kill you and be glad of it, were my honor not at stake.” His fingers squeezed.

Loki bared his teeth. His hatred of this man, of his situation, bubbled up inside him. "Do you know what my people call you, Thor Odinsson? Do you?" He writhed against Thor's grip, fury lacing his words with as much venom as his heart could muster. "We call you Angrboda, the Bringer of Sorrow!"

Thor moved not an inch, but his eyes widened. His fingers clenched, and Loki coughed. He forced the words out.

"You are the misery of my people. Do you expect me to kneel to you? Do you expect me to enjoy being chained to the Grief-Giver? Did you expect _devotion_?"

Something shifted in Thor's expression--a tightening about his eyes, and his cheeks pinked slightly.

Loki huffed a choked laugh. "You did. You expected me to serve you and be glad of it. You poor, naïve fool. As though I could ever honor an _Asgardian_." He twisted his body and broke Thor's hold. He scrabbled over the couch. "As if I could yield myself to one!"

Thor whipped around and snagged him about the waist, dragging him back over the back of the couch and throwing him to the floor. "You will yield to me, frost giant! You are mine!"

"I belong to myself!" Loki cried, and drove his elbow back into Thor's ribs. The bastard didn't even wince.

"My father holds legal contracts saying otherwise," Thor hissed, his breath hot in Loki's ear as he pushed himself on top of him. "Contracts you signed in your own hand." His hands fisted in Loki's hair and he smashed his forehead down into the floor. Loki could feel his half-hard cock pressing against his thigh.

Fear rose like gorge in Loki's throat, thick and choking, and through it a thread of anger wove its way out. "Honorless cur!" he cried. He drew his _hrímskjöld_ about him, freezing Thor's hands, and his husband yelped in pain as he let go. Loki drew about and struck him across the jaw.

"I declare you _griðniðingr_! You swore to uphold my comfort and welfare, but what have you done, Angrboda, but attack my person in every way possible? I am not your equal in this marriage, and have no hope of becoming so. I am made outcast by your actions and your race's disregard for the differences of my own. You condemn my behavior, but I have no choice! These are the weak actions of a coward! You forget, Thor, that I have power you do not. I could force my will over yours as easily as you would force me to the ground, but I have the honor you lack!"

Thor sat on his heels, his face darkening in fury. "Take it back."

Loki spat on the floor before Thor’s spread knees. "Not even for the treasures in your father's vault."

"You're nothing but a brood mare," Thor said, his voice shaking with the force of his anger. "What children I get on you will never see the light of day before I drown them in the fjord."

"The vaunted honor of Asgard," Loki mocked, and Thor lunged, pushed past anger into sheer berserker rage. Loki's fear resurfaced, and he discarded the thought to cry for help almost as soon as it came to him. No one would help him, here. He summoned his _hrímskjöld_ and conjured handfuls of ice.

Thor tore down a tapestry and flung it at Loki, smothering the frost, and leapt after. He thrust the wadded fabric against Loki's face. Loki clamped down his panic and rammed the heels of his hands against Thor's chin, pushing it up and back in an effort to break his grip. He felt the chill of his _hrímskjöld_ sinking into Thor's flesh, but the battle-rage was deep on Thor's mind, and he didn't respond. Loki's thoughts spun in circles, and he grasped frantically for his _seiðr_. It flashed through him, and with a snap of his fingers the tapestry unwove itself, sending clouds of yarn and wool fibers into the air.

Thor pulled back, bewildered. Loki took advantage of his distraction to scramble out from under him. He slid through the wool, and were it not for the loose threads he would have gotten away. As it was, Thor recovered from his surprise and seized Loki's ankle before he could escape. He slipped and crashed to the ground. The bitter, metallic tang of blood filled his mouth. Behind him, Thor clamped his hands about his neck, his fingers digging into Loki’s trachea. Loki choked and tucked his chin, desperate for anything to ease the crushing pressure.

Mustering the last ounces of his strength, Loki cast his _hrímskjöld_ into a blade over his fist. He swung it wildly behind him, at Thor’s face. A sharp cry cut through the air, and Loki almost sobbed in relief. Writhing loose from Thor's grip for the hundredth time that day, he spun and looked to his handiwork.

It was no more than a scratch, but it traced over Thor's eye and narrowly missed slicing it open. Blood streaked down his cheek, clotting in his beard, and the look of shock on his face was almost comical. He sat back on the floor and stared up at Loki.

Loki took no chances. Snatching the bronze pitcher from the tray on the side table, he cracked it over Thor's head. He went down like a glacier's calf, throwing up puffs of woolly lint in place of ocean spray. He groaned, stunned.

Loki threw the pitcher down and turned from his spouse. He opened a window to the cool night air. Already the prickle of panicked heat was cooling from his skin. His breathing slowed, and the adrenaline subsided. Moving a chair over, he sprawled himself in it and contemplated his husband.

It took several minutes for Thor to manage to get his limbs working in the right order, but when he did, and had pushed himself up enough to look around, he saw Loki sitting before the window, between him and the door. He frowned, and reached up to smear at the blood on his face. He stared at his bloody fingers for a moment, then wiped them off on his tunic.

Loki's nostrils flared. "If you try to rape me again, I will cut off those balls you value so highly, have them gilded, and give them back to you as a naming day gift."

Thor snorted. He didn't protest.

"There are two ways we can go forward in this marriage. We can carry on as we have been--" he gestured to the ruin of the room around them, "--or we can actually try to make it work."

Thor reached for the trunk at the end of the couch and levered himself onto it. He sank his head into his hands, gingerly prodding at the tender spot on his scalp. "I do not care for either option."

"Nor do I. If I were forced to choose, however, I would choose the path that leads away from our killing each other. I'm very fond of living."

Thor snorted again, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "And I'm fond of not having my head bashed in."

An evening breeze, redolent with the scent of the sea, fluttered through the yarn strewn across the floor. Loki pursed his lips, thinking. "We are married, but we know nothing of each other. This must change."

"Whatever you say."

"First among them: the differences between my people and yours. I will not be insulted any longer for things I cannot help."

Thor's head jerked up at that, his eyes like chips of ice. Loki saw that he had left livid red handprints across his cheeks, along with the slice over his eye and the lump raising on the back of his head. He would have to visit the healers, again. "I will cease to insult your effeminacy as soon as you take back your skalding."

Anger, dampened by the fight, coiled afresh in Loki's breast. His hands clenched on the handrests of his chair. "You want to argue degrees of insult? I believe it was you who said you would drown my future children."

Of all things he expected Thor to do, he did not expect him to flush an ugly red and turn away. "That... was unjust of me."

Loki limited himself to saying, "That is the very least of it."

Silence fell between them, heavy and awkward. Thor pushed himself to his feet, wavering only slightly, and Loki stood with him, wary. "I think I should leave," Thor muttered, avoiding Loki's gaze.

Loki nodded. "Yes, you should."

Thor fidgeted for a moment, then hurried to the door. He paused before leaving, opening his mouth as though to speak, but he seemed to think better of it and slipped into the hall, pulling the door shut behind him.

Loki stood motionless for a time, staring at the door. Then reaction set in, and he grabbed his chair and rammed the back of it under the knob. He backed away, limbs trembling. He seized up a crystal figurine from a sideboard and flung it at a wall. He snatched up another and threw it, too. The shards shattered and fanned out against the flags.

He slept warily that night, with one hand on his dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hólmganga_ , or "island-walking," was the go-to duel of choice for your honor-conscious Viking. There were some insults or deeds so severe that they could only be met with a challenge if you wanted to keep your reputation, and if you did, the holmgang was the way to go. It was usually held within a week of the initial challenge, and was possibly fought atop a spread hide or cloak, hence the "island" in the name. Anyone who didn't show was declared _niðingr._
> 
>  _Niðingr_ was a serious, serious insult. Duels were fought over it, so many that quite a few Scandinavian countries outlawed this (and several other, related insults) because too many people were killing each other to prove them wrong. Nithings, as the condemned were called, were outlaws and promptly kicked out of house and home, and rejected from all society. They were seen as oathbreakers, the worst sort of people: cowards, thieves, liars, murderers, and the sexually perverse. _Griðniðingr_ is basically the same but moreso.
> 
> "You're nothing but a brood mare": the second nastiest insult in Viking society, and also answerable by challenge to the death. The implication is that you're calling another man 1) an animal, obviously, but also 2) an animal that yielded sexually to another male. This is was hella-bad; you didn't imply another man was a pussy, it Just Wasn't Done. This is tied to that "sexual perversion" aspect of _niðingr_ , because "real" men had a proper fear of penetration and didn't let it happen, and therefore if they did they were cowardly and probably did witchcraft since they CLEARLY weren't fit for battle. (It also applied to women, but since women couldn't help it, it wasn't seen as being so bad.)
> 
> (On a related note, Thor threatened Loki with _klámhogg_ in an earlier chapter, which basically means "shame-stroke." It was used in context of "a shame-stroke on the buttocks." Now, depending on how you interpret your sources, this _could_ have meant a conventional beating/whipping, but it strongly suggested rape. Either way, it was meant to shame the victim to the utmost, and was considered a deep, potentially mortal wound, comparable to castration.) ([source](http://www.vikinganswerlady.com/gayvik.shtml))


	6. Chapter 6

The next day bore a quiet tension, as of a storm just past, but still trailing static charge through the air. Loki watched Thor, and made sure he preceded him wherever they walked. To an outsider it would appear the deference due a prince; for Loki, it was merely sensible caution. He dressed that day as a Jötunn warrior: jewelry minimal, hair braided and caught in a caul, with a utilitarian kilt and as many of his knives as he could manage without looking like a pincushion. It was not unusual for arms to be borne in Gladsheim, but Loki was accustomed to going unarmed through the halls of his home.

No more. He glared at his husband, and watched his friends, and tried to conceal that shred of hurt and fear in his chest that screamed he was too weak, too small to resist. Of all the men he had to marry it would be the one who killed jötunns for fun, who despite the miniscule size of the Æsir still managed to dwarf Loki by sheer dint of muscle. Loki kept his face impassive and a free hand on the nearest pommel.

Frigga noticed the tension between Loki and her son, of course. All through breakfast she examined them, eyes narrowing as she took in the handprint-shaped burns on Thor’s face and Loki’s taut wariness, and Loki knew that by meal’s end she had sussed the matter out. He considered going to her for advice, but dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. Wise she may be, but she was also a mother, and no mother would give unbiased counsel regarding her son. He saw her lean close to Thor as he left the hall, a frown marring her smooth composure.

Loki escaped as soon as he was able and vanished into the nooks and crannies of the palace. There were many, for Gladsheim was immense and labyrinthine compared to Útgard. He considered diving once more into the library, but instead he wandered aimlessly until he found himself in a disused gallery lined on one side with broad, deep-set windows and on the other with faded tapestries. Odd bits of statuary dotted the alcoves, and outside Loki could see a small, weedy garden, walled in on all sides and left to grow wild. He leaned close to one of the tapestries, curious.

He drew back with a delighted smile. “Oh, that’s naughty,” he said. “What is that, four?” He tilted his head to get a better angle, and froze. The next tapestry over was of a couple, arrayed in wedding finery. The shorter was Æsir-pale, but the other, the taller of the two, was the dark blue of a jötunn. Loki stepped back, a chill running down his spine. There was no description woven into the fabric, just endless scrolls of frost-edged leaves. He looked over, and saw the next tapestry was of the Svartálfar War, but the elves were noble and sad, and the Æsir portrayed as hideous marauders. Loki turned back to the Jötunn couple.

“That’s King Buri and his wife,” a voice called out, and Loki turned to see Freyja walking over to meet him. “You may have heard her called the Blue Queen; it was a bit more literal than most Æsir believe.”

Loki stared at the tapestry. “The Blue Queen was Odin’s grandmother, wasn’t she?”

Freyja drew up beside him. “Indeed, she--or I suppose he--was. This gallery is where Odin keeps seditious artwork. Take a look.” She pointed toward a statue, and Loki saw it was of a wolf in chains, a noble, suffering look upon its countenance. “Isn’t that--”

“Yes,” Freyja said, cutting him off. “Makes you wonder about those rumors of Odin’s obsession with spae-craft and prophecy, doesn’t it?”

Loki looked back to the pornographic tapestry, and saw, now, in the exact center, the sleeping form of Ymir, and the comely bodies birthed from his loins that spilled out to join the frolicking orgiasts. Some were pale, but more were blue, or red, or black. It was the creation of the Realms, he realized. “Why isn’t this under lock and key?” he asked, slack-jawed. “Anyone could wander in here. ‘Anyone’ did.”

Freyja had wandered past, and was brushing her fingers down another tapestry, her face full of wistfulness. Loki went over to look. It showed a scene of conquer: a legion of Vanaheim’s renowned mounted archers decimating the massed ranks of Asgard’s Einherjar. “Odin the Wise is also Odin the Concealer,” she said. “He is a master of propaganda. This gallery is genius; if he had outright forbidden any of these works, they would have been infamous. Instead, he consigned them to obscurity, and left them to rot in an out-of-the-way corner of the palace which few find and fewer care about.”

Loki bowed his head. Freyja walked on. “Ah, little Midgard, there you are.” She brushed her hands over an ancient book, leather-bound and crumbling. It, unlike the others, was protected beneath a glass case, and kept out of direct sunlight. _Konungsbók_ , it read on the cover, tooled in gold. “A much edited copy is kept in the Palace Library,” Freyja said. “It is their tales of us, along with the Snorra Edda.” She smiled bitterly. “I haven’t read this copy, but I’m sure it shows the root of Odin’s paranoia.”

Loki gave her a curious look. “You don’t like Odin, do you.” He couldn’t fault her, but the Vanir were such staunch allies of Asgard...

Freyja waved a hand. “I tolerate him. Say what you will, he is a frith-weaver. He is also, however, a conqueror, though Father tells me he has mellowed with age.”

“Hence my marriage,” Loki said.

“Yes. Tell me, do you not find it delicious that Thor, slayer of giants, is also descended from them?”

Loki did, but another thought occurred to him. “You and your brother, my Lady, are also giant slayers.”

Freyja gave him a long look. “As no doubt your kin are slayers of Vanir. We have all been enemies at one point or another, my Lord Loki; I and my brother, however, can claim to do it out of duty, not gratification. Thor, he would crush your race with glee, if Odin permitted.”

The night before rushed to the forefront of his mind, and Loki shuddered.

Freyja’s gaze was altogether too discerning. “Has something happened?”

Loki swallowed. “After a fashion.”

“Is it something you wish to talk about?”

“It is merely Thor being no other than himself.” Loki moved toward the closest window and peered out into the brushy riot of fall color.

“Don’t think I didn’t see Thor’s burns, my Lord,” Freyja said. “Or how tightly you grip your sword.”

Loki unclenched his fingers from around the handle of his long knife, and clasped his hands behind him. “There is nothing I wish to tell.”

Freyja backed off with grace. “As you will. Just… know that spousal rape is grounds for divorce in Asgardian law.”

“I’m sure we’re eligible for divorce many times over, but I do not have that luxury.”

Freyja sighed. Her hand was warm on Loki’s shoulder, through the thin fabric of his cloak. “Call on me, and I will do what I can to ease this trial for you.”

Loki turned to face her, dislodging her hand, and bowed. “I thank you, my lady, for your advice and services as guide. If you will excuse me.”

He left her there, in a pool of sunshine from the wild courtyard.

***

The next weeks found the City preparing for Odin's yearly progress through Asgard's domains. The outlying fiefdoms would come first, unloading their gathered taxes to the Allfather, and from there the royal retinue would spiral inwards toward the Realm Eternal herself, to parade in triumphant return down the Causeway of the City. Loki watched the preparations for the progress with a crafted, blank expression. It was not so long ago that Jötunheim had been part of Asgard's progress. Now only his richest moons were worth the Allfather's regard.

So busy was the mood in Asgard that the mead-month for the prince's wedding passed with little recognition. A brief ceremony in the hof, beneath the Allfather's harried, distracted gaze, and that was that. The Royal Family and a representative from Jötunheim were all that were there to witness. Loki found himself curiously underwhelmed by the entire affair. So much had been made of the wedding proper; this tiny, half-forgotten ceremony, more binding, in truth, than the formal vows, felt rather less momentous than he felt it ought. 

But now--now Loki stood before the mirror in his private chambers. His reflection was a familiar one: black hair and ruby flame eyes, bright against his darkness. The lines of his heritage laid their claim across his skin. He traced the mother-line up his chest.

The Æsir were pale and warm, their skins so thin their inner fires burned to the touch. Loki raised his hand, palm up. His own skin was far thicker, to protect those inner fires from the cold of his homeland. His touch was cool, and with the aid of the _hrímskjöld_ it froze.

He drew his memories to the overheated press of Thor's body against his own, and imagined that fire emerging from his own skin. He burned. Opening his eyes, he saw not the pink, variegated flesh of an ás but the red and black striations of an elding. His reflection distorted from the heat, and smoke from the carpet billowed upward. Loki gasped, and imagined a hot blade quenched in water. Immediately ice crept back over his shoulders.

His chest heaved as he struggled to compose himself. An eldjötunn. He could have burned down the entire palace. Finding his center, he thought back on the transformation. Temperature aside, he had changed little from his own form; he had lacked the white eyes and ram’s horns of his elding kin. Perhaps when he had found a less flammable location he would practice further.

Setting those thoughts aside, he turned back to his purpose. Temperature was too loose a variable; perhaps visual appearance would be a better place to start. He looked back at his hand, and Willed his fingertips to turn white. They turned the downy, bloodless white of clouds and spume--a mist wraith, though one in the form of a jötunn. Loki gritted his teeth. It should not be this hard to find a new shape. Releasing his skin back to its natural shade, he squatted and tucked in his chin against his chest.

Æsir. Thin-skinned, warm to the touch but easily chilled. Quick moving; rivers of water instead of rivers of ice. Their hearts beat so fast; touching Thor had felt like holding a panicked bird in his hands. Their eyes were weaker in the dark, and less offended by bright colors. They were hairier. Loki brushed a finger down his own scanty leg hair, and compared it to his memories of Thor's. He suspected they tasted a broader spectrum of flavors, and could distinguish a wider range of subtleties in smell, but Loki could catch fainter smells, and what he tasted he suspected he tasted more strongly. They were... only half-finished. Limited either to siring or bearing. Loki couldn't quite wrap his mind around it.

He pushed all these details into the center of his mind and focused on them, drawing them out of the theoretical and making them, in his heart, fact. He ground that fact into his bones, his nerves, his sinews. He pushed it through his veins and into his organs. He remolded his thoughts with it. His hormones surged and abated. He grew strangely cold.

Raising his head, he looked in the mirror and almost sat down in astonishment. His face was pale, more pale even than Thor's, but still with a flush of pink in his cheeks that smacked of thin skin and Æsir blood. His hair was still black and lustrous, but his eyes were unnaturally green, and the lines of his heritage had vanished. He looked at his hands. The indigo lacquer he had painted on his nails that morning was shocking against his new skin.

He stood. His center of balance remained the same, but the sensation in his limbs was one of lightness, of springiness. He felt weightless, and his heart raced. He reassured himself his heart rate was normal for an ás, and fought the urge to slow it. His horns were utterly absent. His skin pebbled from the chill in his rooms, and he ran a hand over the wispy thatch of hair that stood up on his chest.

It was unsettling. Reflexively he drew the _hrímskjöld_ about himself, and he knew a moment of piercing cold before the blue rushed back into his skin. His limbs lost their thrumming energy; his heart slowed back to baseline. The closest sensation Loki could compare it to was if the energy within him had been banked, like the embers of a waning fire. Frost spread over his hands, and he drew a ball of ice out of the air. He let out a breath.

It was well before dawn. The stars still burned brightly, but at the horizon they were smudged out, dulled by the oncoming day. He turned back to his mirror, and stared intently at his reflection.

He practiced the shift until it flowed seamlessly until he grew accustomed to his appearance and would not startle if he saw it. He stepped back into wider space and stretched out his arms above his head, then bent and touched the ground. He rose, and spun into one of the beginner's sparring forms, acquainting himself with the physicality of these new limbs.

By now the eastern sky had lightened, and Loki could hear the rising clamor of the city below. He smiled. Perhaps it was time to see how his new skin fared on Asgard's City streets. He slipped through the palace halls, conjuring an innocuous tunic about him, and left via the servants' gate in the western wall.

He found himself in a lesser merchant quarter, far poorer and more ramshackle than the market where he had met Lady Freyja. The hungry look of its inhabitants sat uneasily with Loki’s memories of Jötunheim. Even in Asgard, the seat of economic and military might in the Nine Realms, there was poverty. Hidden, of course, and less widespread than on Jötunheim, but still present, and under the shadow of the palace itself. Loki wrinkled his nose as he stepped out of the way of a trundling hog cart and avoided the splashes of dirty water that pooled between the cobblestones.

He hadn't come to see Asgard's politest face, however. He had come to see her fair city's dirty underclothes, or what of them he could find. He strolled down the winding streets, careless with his safety as he couldn't be in his true form. No one looked twice at him, here: his dress was subdued, his face unremarkable, and above all, his passage forgotten.

How long he walked he didn't know; until the sun was halfway to its zenith, until he had sketched out the breadth of the slums in footsteps. He found himself in a small square, centered by a fountain spraying a limp trickle of water. A temple, outsized for this neighborhood and shabby with neglect, balanced the southern prospect. This was high ground, after a fashion: a small hill stood here, and some enterprising civil planner had contrived for a terrace to be built upon it, parting the tightly-packed houses just enough for Loki to see over the rooftops of a good third of the city--though the low elevation of the harbor, and the irregular terrain of the fjord in which the city sat, contrived to hide the bulk of it from him. Still, he caught a glimpse of a series of golden domes toward the east, a confection of shining spires between them and the palace, and something which resembled nothing so much as a solid block of gold gracelessly dropped in the hills behind him.

He stood silent among the scanty bustle of the morning crowds, watching and thinking. It dismayed him to see that the majority of the dwellers in this part of the city were not Æsir. They seemed mostly Vanir, though no few Ljós- and Dökkálfar mingled on the steps. The pale faces and tall stature of Asgard's native people were few. Loki knew that his own people, should they live as expatriates among the Æsir, would collect here in the gutters of Asgard's wealth, as well.

Presently a carillon rang out from the temple, echoed by the bells in all the high towers throughout the city, and Loki started, looking skyward to the position of the sun. It was past time he made his way back to the palace.

Rather than retrace his steps he found himself a new route through the back-alleys. The trash was less assiduously collected, here, and the stench of piss and beery, stale vomit assaulted his nose. He grimaced. At least on Jötunheim the chill kept smells from rising too strongly.

He noted the particularly interesting buildings as he passed, those with sigils etched into the lintels that meant more than the usual charms against fire and theft. Loki didn't recognize them, and assumed they were a shorthand for the local entrepreneurs of independent affiliation, or perhaps for identifying safehouses and meeting places. One such sigil graced the backside of what, judging from the faded playbills pasted to the splintering wood, Loki supposed was a theatre during a more forgiving time of day. He would have passed that one, too, had not the door opened and a tired looking woman stumbled out to light up a stick of fragrant incense. She inhaled the smoke, then breathed it out through her nose. She glanced to Loki, scowling.

"What do you want?"

Loki spread his hands. "Nothing but the pleasure of my morning walk."

The woman glanced around the weathered, unlovely view the alley afforded them, then snorted. "You're a funny one, aren't you. There's nothing to be had this early. If you’re looking for a doxie, you're looking in the wrong place. And up the wrong skirts," she added, waving him off with the hand holding her smoking incense stick. The smell, while pleasant, burned Loki's nostrils.

"I'm afraid I seek nothing of the sort," Loki said, amused by her assumption. "Although, I do find myself curious, being a newcomer to the City. Is this, as I presume it to be, a theatre? I count myself rather the connoisseur."

"Aye, you might call it that." She sucked in another lungful of smoke. Her hair was so pale as to appear white in the sunlight, and her eyes were a piercing grey. "A theatre that caters to a certain kind of crowd, you might say, and I don't mean the leg-lookers." She looked him up and down. "You've a bit of the liar in you, haven't you?"

Loki raised his brows innocently. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

The woman snorted. "Aye, and I'm the Allmother. A connoisseur, my bone-white arse." She stared at him some more, and Loki found himself fighting back the urge to fidget.

Eventually it seemed she came to some decision, for she dipped back through the door before returning. She thrust a piece of heavy paper at him, written about with the same sigil etched over the door. He glanced up at it, then back down to her. He raised a brow.

She smiled in reply. "It's a calling card, you might say," she said. "Come to this door tomorrow night, milord, and you'll see what manner of theatre we put on." The flutter of wings scuttled down the alley.

Loki bowed over her hand, palming the card as he did. "My lady. What name shall I ask for?"

"Gerda. What do I call you?"

Loki thought for a moment, and the breeze that skittered through the trash decided him. "Lopt," he said.

Gerda snorted. "Hot air, then, is that all you are?"

Loki smiled. "We shall see, won't we?"

Gerda rolled her eyes and blew smoke in his face. By the time his eyes had stopped watering enough for him to see, she had already disappeared back into the bowels of the theatre. Loki smiled. He thought he might come to like this neighborhood.

***

A martial flourish rang through the chatter, and with a bang of his staff, Odin stepped down from his throne. The Allmother took his hand, and together they led the procession down the hall toward the door at the end of the throne room. Loki took his place a half-step behind Thor's left shoulder, the assorted guards and nobles of Odin's court spilled into the void behind them; they broke into the sunlight to a fanfare of trumpets and drums, while brightly-colored pennants streamed and petals cascaded in curtains of red and white. Loki shrugged his cloak tighter about his shoulders against the sunlight.

The Causeway lanced straight and true through the heart of Asgard's City to the foot of the Bifröst, and its root was at Gladsheim's doorstep. They walked over the iridescent glass, and the hundreds of footsteps raised a gentle, unmelodic song.

The Allfather slowed upon making the Grand Plaza, the center of the City both geographically and politically, and the train spread out behind them. All around cheers and happy bunting clashed with noisemakers and confetti, and Loki found himself wishing he could cover his ears against the noise and his eyes against the color. He fixed his gaze on Thor's red cloak to block out the assault on his senses.

Odin and Thor stepped to the center of the plaza. Courtiers fanned to the sides, flowing through the streets like the rising tide through coastal rocks. An honor guard of politicians and Einherjar stayed with them, those who would fill out Thor's retinue on the Royal Progress. The Allfather raised his hand, and slowly the roar of excitement quieted.

Loki ignored his words. It was hot, and he was quickly approaching abject misery. The press of too many bodies, all jockeying for the best position, raised a tremendous heat to Loki's sensitive skin, and even though he stood on the dais provided for the Royal Family (a unique privilege for a concubine, he was told), there were still too many tender Æsir at hand to risk using his _hrímskjöld_. He cursed the sun and pulled his cloak tighter about his neck, and his neck prickled with the heat. 

All told the progress would take a month, Loki understood, even with the Bifröst's aid, for Asgard's territory was vast. Thor would lead it, aided by the Allfather's advisors, and the Allfather would stay behind to govern. It was an unprecedented move; such a decision had not arisen in near thirty millennia, for Asgard's kings glorified death in battle. Odin was the first king since Buri's grandfather to rule so long uncontested.

Odin had always made the progress himself to renew his iron hold over the nine realms; but now, it seemed, the Allfather had grown too old. Loki glanced to him where he stood on the dais. His expression was unreadable, his back straight and unbent. Loki wondered how much of his starch was pride.

The trumpets rang again, jarring Loki from his ruminations, and Thor stepped forward. There was a brief, awkward silence before he realized this was his cue, and with all the aplomb he could muster he swept forward and into a deep bow before his husband. "Until you return," he said carryingly.

"Keep warm the home fires," Thor replied. Loki rose and met his gaze. Thor was dressed in his full regalia, from his polished boots to his winged helmet, and he was truly a formidable sight. His face was impassive, but there was something uneasy in his eyes, and he did not hold Loki's gaze for long. He turned with no more ceremony than that, and boarded the longboat moored by the starburst roundel in the center of the plaza. His retinue followed, and Loki got himself out of their way.

The remainder of the ceremony was short. The din followed the longboat down the Causeway, the thrum of its engines utterly drowned out by the adulation of Thor's people, and Odin turned back to the palace as soon as the Bifröst flared into the darkness. Loki went with the throng, ignoring the side-eyed glances and unsubtle staring as the courtiers caught sight of him out of the corners of their eyes. He walked in a bubble of silence, and he found himself smiling bitterly at the reminder of home. There was no difference, really. Wherever he went he was the outcast, the oddity. At least at home there was the comforting touch of the familiar.

He let his mind wander. Thor would be gone for a month on the progress, and that was a month in which Loki would have, if not complete freedom, then more latitude and less oversight than before. His mind went to the theatre, and the woman--Gerda--he had met the day before. He no longer had a curfew chained to Thor's bedtime, as he had during the mead moon; now, his evenings were free. He thought of the townhouse Thor had given him for his morning gift, and of the money he also received. Perhaps it was time to establish himself as a political entity in his own right, without his royal husband looming behind.

His ruminations were interrupted as he passed through the palace doors, whereupon a servant dodged through the press to his side. He bowed as best as he was able, saying, "My lord, the Allfather wishes to speak with you. He awaits you in the formal portrait hall."

Loki stared at the man for a moment, but mustered the presence of mind to dismiss him before they caused a jam in the doorway. He slipped off to the side, toward the corridors that led to the north-facing promenade. The air was cooler, here, shadowed as it was from the sun by the bulk of the palace. Below, the smell of rosemary and lemongrass rose from the kitchen gardens.

He had been living in Gladsheim, in Asgard, for over a month and the Bölverkr had not once summoned him to his presence. It was as though, once he had wed them, he had promptly forgotten about the unsightly addition to his son's entourage. Until now. Now, Thor was gone and Odin's eye had turned to gaze upon Loki in his absence. He shuddered and sought out the nearest staircase.

The formal portrait hall was set above the western edge of the throne room. It was lined with paintings, tapestries, and murals depicting the history and legacy of Odin Borsson, all displayed with the glitter and pride of that noble family. Loki noted that every face was distinctly Æsir in appearance.

Odin stood midway along, gazing through a window onto the cascade of domes of the palace's lower roofs. He didn't acknowledge Loki's entrance, and continued his perusal even until Loki stood some feet away, his arms clasped respectfully behind his back.

Loki considered the virtues of patience. This was the most powerful man in the Nine Realms, after all; some caution would not go amiss. He opened his mouth.

"I would have thought the appreciation of art would be rather hampered by the loss of an eye," he said. "Oh, but I suppose it's different with family propaganda?" He gestured to the walls around him. "Simpler, perhaps. Less visually nuanced."

The Allfather turned, stately as a barge on a slow-moving stream.

Loki prided himself on his willpower, and his stubbornness when that failed. He knew his faults: he was arrogant, hasty, and too clever for his own good. Moreover, he had grown up under Laufey's ungentle care, and had a passing acquaintance with stern, forbidding glares.

However, in his pride Loki forgot that, despite his mother's sharp edges, Laufey was still a parent. He would tolerate what others would scold for. Odin was not Loki's mother, nor his father, and was not disposed toward liking Loki on principle. His expression was blank, but his single eye burned, and Loki felt it in his soul.

He looked away and made his obeisance. "Allfather."

"Laufeyjarson."

Loki held back a grimace. "You did summon me, my lord."

That single eye didn't blink. "What do you know of kingship, Loki?"

Loki floundered. "An Asgardian would say not much, I imagine. But then, I'm not Asgardian, am I?"

Odin waved away his words. "Irrelevant. Your dam, surely he taught you of statecraft. Your haphazard proddings into palace politics indicate you have at least some familiarity with the concept."

That was quite enough. "I was Third Scion, Allfather, before I was removed from that standing by _you_. I may be malformed, but I know what it is to govern."

Odin paced down the gallery, his boots echoing across the polished floors. "You have shown little proof of that."

Loki scowled and resisted the urge to make faces at Odin's back. "I have seen little worth exerting myself over."

The Allfather stopped in the middle of the floor, half turning to glower over his shoulder. "Do not play the idiot, child. We both know why you chose to accept the suit. However, if it is frith you seek, I am afraid you are going about it quite the wrong way."

Loki clenched his fists. "Most worthwhile endeavors take time. How long did it take you to bind together Vanaheim and Asgard? How long did you fight that war, O Hnikarr? Did its peace happen overnight?"

"Jötunheim is not Vanaheim. Your people do not mix with ours so easily."

Loki planted himself beside a tapestry of Buri. "I hear differently."

Odin speared him with that gimlet gaze once more, and stepped through a side door near the back of the hall. Compelled to follow, Loki did so, and found himself standing on a gallery well above Hlíðskjalf, the smiling bow of the throne muted in the dim torchlight. Even in full light, Loki saw, with the torches at their brightest and the sun streaming through the windows, this gallery and its occupants would be hidden from sight.

Odin spoke. "One day my son will sit upon that throne," he said. "One day, you will stand behind him in the shadows, and you will have more power than any jötunn has had since the beginning of the Realms. I seek to stabilize my son's rule."

He looked Loki up and down, from his dusty boots to his simple cloak. "I do not see stability in you."

Loki bit back his instinctual hiss at the slight. "I did not ask for this union."

"No, but you ensured its continuance. And now, in Thor's absence, you have an opportunity to take your first, unchaperoned steps into Asgardian politics." Odin braced his hands against the balustrade. "In the morning I will call the Assembly to order and make a motion that only Asgardian citizens by birth, or citizens of Asgard’s protectorates, may address the council directly. All others must first obtain an Asgardian sponsor or spokesperson to be heard."

He turned to face Loki head-on. "I would not have your voice speak freely in my Assembly, Laufeyjarson. I will have stability for my son, and your voice will bring the opposite."

Loki felt as though a mule had kicked him in the stomach. "Then you have abandoned Jötunheim," he said. "We are no longer vassals, and so you throw us to the gutter. I never asked to be Thor's equal, merely that I be accorded the respect of the rank he provides me." He mimed breaking a branch and throwing it down. "This union is a sham, a show to the other kingdoms the example you make of your former enemies."

Odin's gaze never wavered. "Of course. It always was. But neither will you break it, for even as it suits my purposes it benefits you and your people equally."

"From a certain point of view," Loki snapped.

"You will find, jötunn, that many things depend on a certain point of view." He waved his hand before Loki's face, and he felt his skin grow thin and cold in the unheated air of the gallery before fading back to its customary heat-prickled state.

The Allfather knew of his shapeshifting. Would he approve of Loki's bohemian explorations in Asgard's slums?

"I could care less what you get up to in your spare time. But you will remember your place by your husband's side when the time comes, and what power you have now you will release when he finds a suitable consort. You are a placeholder, Loki, no more. Do not forget it."

The anger Loki felt in that moment, the helpless rage that poured through him until nothing remained but white-hot fury, had him clenching his fists--but Loki permitted it no other outlet, and it settled burning in his heart. He glared at Odin, and he saw then something he did not expect:

The Allfather was old.

He had known it in the abstract, for the Allfather had ruled Asgard since before his mother's mother had met his consort; he could barely imagine a world without the Allfather looming over the Nine Realms.

But there was knowing, and there was knowing, and Loki saw the crabbed, speckled hand tremble slightly at his side; he saw the rheum in Odin's remaining eye, and the subtle effort it took him to move so fluidly.

The shock of that realization tempered Loki's wrath, forging it into a cool, sharp edge. "And you are nearing the end of your span of years, Allfather," Loki replied softly. "Who will champion your cause when you are gone? Who will uphold the Assembly's decrees when the Vanir pound against the doors of the Council Hall, demanding their say? What of the Ljósálfar, the Dökkálfar? Would you deny their voices, too?"

Odin said nothing, merely regarded Loki as one might regard a child in a tantrum. "Vanaheim is a protectorate of Asgard, as are Álfheim and Nidavellir, if only on paper. Their children are the children of Asgard. Jötunheim was too, ere the _handsal_ was bargained, but by your own determination the Jötnar are now free from our oversight. You are no citizen of Asgard or the Realm Eternal. You cannot speak in the Assembly."

Loki felt the bars of the invisible, gilded cage close tight, and he bit back a snarl. He bowed. "Your will is law, Allfather."

"You may go."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nerd time!
> 
> Óðinn's grandmother is not explicitly named in the myths. It is said that Búri was licked out of the ice by the primordial cow Auðumla, and that he then produced a son, Borr (who is Óðinn's father). Now given this delightful leeway, and that the only other creatures living at the time were 1) Ymir, 2) Auðumla, 3) the jötunns Ymir produced, there's not a great deal of choice for Búri's spouse. _And_ since I'm basically euhemerizing the myths onto Marvel "history," I am hereby declaring Thor's great-grandmother to be a frost giant. Go team!
> 
> The "wolf in chains" is the Fenrisúlfr, Loki's son who's fated to kill Óðinn in Ragnarök. Now given Fenrir doesn't actually exist in this 'verse, I'm leaning on this being a statue carved from a prophecy (*coughs* the Völuspá) rather than an actual wolf in chains somewhere.
> 
> The Konungsbók is the Icelandic name for the Codex Regius, which means "Royal Book." It's a 13th century vellum manuscript that is one of the very few sources of Norse mythology we have. It's more commonly called the Poetic Edda, since it's all poems. The Snorra Edda is a different manuscript, also called the Prose Edda, composed by Snorri Sturluson in the 13th century.
> 
> Loki turns into a "mist wraith" when he's testing out his shapeshifting. For the curious (and since I don't really elaborate on it very much), I'm headcanoning that the native (or at least currently occupying) species of Niflheim are the Thokkadraugar, or the Mist Wraiths.


	7. Chapter 7

The theatre proved to be, not a true theatre as Loki had originally thought, but a cabaret. It was filled with noise and music, and beautiful beings of all races filtered past the patrons' tables. Loki straightened his cuffs and stepped down the stairs into the dining floor. Gerda came up to him, dressed in white and silver and icy blue, and motioned him to a table, where three others sat.

"I'm on shift tonight, but I've some friends for you to meet," she said, the coarse accent of the street gone from her speech. "I'll join you on my breaks." She leaned up to whisper in his ear, "I recommend the oysters."

The table was in a booth tucked against the wall, and granted privacy by its sheltering U-shape. The people already there bore guarded expressions as they watched Loki and Gerda approach.

Gerda spoke. "Völund, Fenja, Menja, this is Lopt."

The man, Völund, was an unimpressive-looking sort, but Loki sensed a banked fire behind those eyes. He wondered what trauma must have happened to set his gaze aflame. The two women were twins, plainly of Ljósálfar descent, and their dark skin glowed like oiled wood in the dim light. They stared at Loki curiously, but it was Völund's gaze that unsettled him.

Then he spoke. "He'll do." That was all, no more comment than that, his voice rusty and deep, and Loki felt that some judgment deeper than appearances had been made. Beside him, Gerda relaxed a mere fraction.

"Splendid," she said a touch acerbically. "Lopt, sit. Make yourself comfortable." Loki bowed to her, and seated himself opposite Völund. Menja, sitting beside him, eyed him curiously.

"You're not all you seem, are you?" she asked.

Loki raised a brow at her. "What makes you think that?"

She shared a glance with her sister, then shrugged. "We know what it is to be more than you appear."

Loki examined her. She was large. She wore her weight well, and it was layered over solid muscle; Loki was certain that when she stood, she and her sister would be taller than he was, possibly as tall as Thor. They were neither of them the petite, Asgardian female archetype. How many times had they been left to the side, called slow or dumb as an ox? He nodded slowly. "I imagine you do." He turned to Völund. "And you? Do you find others misjudge you?"

The fire flared behind Völund's eyes. "Always, Honored Scion."

Loki kept himself firm. So this man knew. Perhaps this was the reason Gerda had introduced him to her friends with so little introduction, so little vetting. Sweat pricked the back of his Æsir neck. He narrowed his eyes.

"Then you know how dangerous a habit that can be."

Völund laid his hand upon the table. It was square, calloused. Scars crisscrossed his knuckles, and a sturdy leather brace covered his wrist. More importantly, Loki saw the signet of the Smith's Guild upon his finger. "I am not without my resources. Few would miss another man named Lopt."

Loki forced a smile. Would he counter the threat with a riposte of his own and risk outing himself to idle listeners? Or did he concede the match, and stay incognito? "Indeed. I shall be sure not to underestimate you, Master Völund."

Völund stared him down, utterly silent, before flagging down a passing waiter. "A round of the house ale, please," he said.

Loki glanced to the sisters; they were sharing a silent conversation, consisting of eyebrows and quirks of the lip, and quick, darting looks. Whatever they decided, it was made swiftly, for both their eyes fixed on Loki in unison. "What do you know of Odin's rule?" Fanje asked. Her dark eyes were frank and assessing.

Loki suppressed a wry smirk. "A fair amount."

"We would have you tell us in your own words," Menja said.

Ah, a gauge of his political affiliations. Consort-concubine or no, they would reassure themselves of his allegiance. He considered his words carefully.

"The Allfather is a man of precise speech. If he makes a contract, he keeps it to the exact wording. But he also makes sure that his exact words leave loophole enough for him to wriggle through. His goal is the rule of the Nine Realms, in one way or another; he has nearly succeeded, and his way is not always just."

"Boldly spoken," Menja murmured. "Do you trust us so easily?"

Loki smirked at Völund. "I know the Smiths are discontented with the Allfather's recent tariffs on certain Dwarven ores. And I know that, the Gatekeeper aside, those of Álfar blood are poorly regarded in the current government. Are we not in the slums of our fair city for a reason? What better place for rot to grow than in the hidden abscesses of a nation."

“Rot,” Völund muttered, but the twins bowed their heads in respect. "You see truly, Lopt. We do not trust the Allfather, and we hold little hope in the warmongering of his son. We seek a... changing of the guard."

Loki raised a brow. "One with slit throats, or one through diplomacy?"

Fanje held up her hands in a weighing motion. "Diplomacy, of course, is preferable. The Allfather is a lost cause--he is too set in his ways. But his son, there is a glimmer of possibility in him."

"But if hope proves false, we have mettle enough to do what needs doing," Völund said. The house lights had lowered during their conversation, and his eyes were shrouded in shadows.

Loki said nothing as the stage lit up. He stared at his companions, uncertain what to say; behind him, the curtains were drawn aside and a sketch began. He paid it no mind. "That's treason," he finally said, his words swallowed in the music.

Menja leaned close, placing her lips beside his ear. "But not, I think, an unwelcome prospect, my lord."

Loki pulled back, goosebumps trailing down his neck from the sensation of her breath against his skin. Treason. What would such an act mean for Jötunheim? The Casket was safe in Jötunn hands; all contracts made with a deposed king would fall null and void, and their forced neutrality would be no more. Not unwelcome, indeed. He smiled. "I'm afraid that I can't agree to such a path, yet."

Völund spoke. "But you aren't disagreeing."

Loki gave an elegant shrug. "Perhaps. It is a touch too early to put all my apples in one basket, don't you think?"

Völund scowled, a truly fearsome expression. He turned to Fanje. "You see? He's no more than a pampered, castrated noble with not a decided bone in his body. Why did Gerda introduce us to him?"

Fanje stroked his forearm. "Calm yourself, Smith." She looked to Loki. "We can't know what forces pressure him, not truly. What would the court of Asgard do to him, if he committed himself to so rash a cause as ours, and was discovered?" Her eyes held too much knowledge in them, and Loki felt that she, too, knew his secret. She met his gaze squarely, though she spoke to Völund. "Patience. He may yet come to our side."

Loki inclined his head. "You'll just have to convince me, my lady."

Fanje smiled. "We do so love a challenge."

***

_Identity: Consort Concubine Loki Laufeyjarson, confirmed. Commence message replay._

_Komdu heil,_ Loki. Our mother does not have the time to properly answer your correspondence, for the simple reason that relations with the Eldjötnar have, as predicted, deteriorated. Moreover, the healing of Jötunheim has met unexpected setbacks. It is a very tense time, Brother; he cannot be spared.

Instead, I will answer your questions. To the first: no, we have no representative in the Allfather's Assembly. He denied us that right in the same compact that took from us the Casket in the first place. To the second: yes, Ekkja Geirrod came to the Keep. We summarily fired your solicitors and set up a proper weregild payment agreement. Honestly, Brother. Have you no care for those in charge of your money? To the third: as far as I'm aware there is no alliance between the Eldjötnar and the Dwarves, aside from the usual installation and tariff for use of the Ways. Why on the Tree would you ask such a thing?

I hope this satisfies you for the time being. We are meeting with a representative from Sinmara of Múspelheim in a year's time and Mother is raging against Odin, Asgard, and you, for accepting the suit. I cannot guarantee that your crystal wouldn't end up shattered.

By the blood of Ymir,

Helblindi Laufeyjarson, Second Scion of Jötunheim

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

It was a calm, quiet street, lined with trees and shrubs made barren by the oncoming threat of winter. There were no carriages or longships, no carts or two-wheeled conveyances; it was a pedestrian street, and the townhouses that lined its overshadowed cobbles were exquisite in their understated wealth. Loki loved it immediately.

He was dressed in his usual kilt and boots, his cloak thrown over his shoulder, and Hevring stood by his side. His servant's unease was a palpable thing, for while they were attired in fine linen and wool, and Loki wore ornaments of gold, the passersby nevertheless gave them dark, suspicious looks. Loki stiffened his spine and strode down the lane with the confidence of one who had every right to be there.

Thor had given Loki a townhouse as part of his morning-gift, and Loki had come to see it.

"We should return to the palace, Honored One," Hevring said. "We are not wanted here."

Loki bit back his angry retort. Hevring was pathetic in his caution, but he could no more help it than Loki could his own contentiousness. "Nonsense. The worst they could do is call the guard, and I assure you the guard will not be able to hold us. Besides," he said as he turned up the path to the right address, "do you see their faces? They know who I am. They're afraid."

Hevring subsided with a nervous grimace, but said no more, and Loki pulled out the belt of keys that had accompanied the transfer of the deed of the house to his name. A large skeleton key with brassy ornaments on the bow glowed at the proximity to its paired lock, and Loki pushed open the door.

The foyer was classically Asgardian. Polished wood floors, smelling faintly of beeswax, stretched forth to the base of the decorative fire pit. Perfectly proportioned arches led away to other parts of the house. Twin staircases graced the side walls, inlaid with contrasting woods and ivory. Loki sighed. It wasn't Útgarda-Keep, but at least it wasn't Gladsheim.

A stern-looking woman came round the corner, wearing a starched apron and a rope of keys at her belt, and she looked ready to deliver a tongue-lashing of remarkable proportions--until she caught sight of Loki, whereupon she stopped short, her eyes widening in shock.

"My Lord Loki," she said, recovering herself with visible effort. "We did not know you would visit today. Why didn't you send your servant with a message?"

Loki smiled, stepping forward to meet her. "I wanted to see the normal running of this house in my absence," he said. "Warning of my arrival would defeat the purpose."

"Ah," she said, clearly uncertain, but she was a professional, and her face returned to its polite mask in the space of a breath. "Perhaps you would like to meet your staff?"

"Indeed. Lead on."

"I am Halldóra, the housekeeper and head of the household in your absence. My husband Gælfr is the gardener and groundskeeper. You also have a cook, Týrvi, and two housemaids, Ætta and Sefa. This is the front parlor." She swept into a room just off the front hall. The benches were bare, the customary wool pads tucked away in storage until such time as they were needed. The firepit, too, was doused, and the master's chair in the corner was draped with a white sheet. Inoffensive paintings of Asgard's steppes and glens hung on the walls. It was a singularly uninteresting room.

"Through that hall is the kitchen and scullery. We have a system of bells and chimes if you need to contact us; wherever you are, we will hear you. Now if you would--"

"Take me through the kitchen, please."

For the second time in what Loki supposed was a very unusual day for her, he watched Halldóra lose her composure. "My lord?" she asked, uncertain.

"I would like to see the kitchens. Show them to me."

"Yes... of course. This way."

The kitchen proved to be immense. The cook was absent, but the entire room smelled of roasting chicken, and from the open windows blew a breeze lightly scented with apples. Loki ran his fingers over the center table. "You eat here, I take it?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And you sleep... ?"

"In the basement, sir. There is a dormitory beside the heater."

Loki glanced to Hevring. "Ah, that may prove difficult for my personal servant. We do not do well in the heat, you see."

If she was bemused or disdainful of this pronouncement, Halldóra didn't show it. "There is a small apartment in the attic, my lord. It isn't as warm as the basement dormitory, but the view is pleasant."

"Will that do for you, Hevring?"

"Yes, Honored One."

"Good. Now, Madame Halldóra, I would meet the rest of my staff."

"Of course, my lord. Hail Gælfr, Týrvi, Ætta, Sefa. Come to the kitchen forthwith." Loki could hear the echo of her voice in distant rooms, targeted to where each presumably sat, and the sound of footsteps followed. Soon all four stood in the kitchen before Halldóra's assessing gaze. The youngest girl stared at Loki.

"Sefa, put your eyes back in your head. This, my lord, is the staff of Cloud's End Hall, and your new staff. May I introduce Gælfr, my husband--" she indicated a middle-aged man in a dirt-stained tunic. His hands were broad and gnarled. "Týrvi, the cook--" a small man, whipcord thin and jittery-- "and the two housemaids, Ætta and Sefa." These two were young, not much younger than Loki himself, and crowned with identical heads of flaxen hair.

"You are sisters, aren't you," he asked them.

"Yes milord," the elder, Ætta, said. "I look out for Sefa."

Loki nodded. "Very well. I am Loki Laufeyjarson, Consort-Concubine to Thor, and this is my body servant, Hevring. I plan to stay here for the duration of my husband's absence."

"Very good, my lord," Halldóra said. "Would you care to see your chambers?"

"Not as yet," Loki replied. "I'd much rather explore on my own."

"Of course, my lord. Ah..."

"Yes, Madam Halldóra?"

"Your pardon, my lord, but what are your plans for the midday meal?"

"I'll have whatever you yourselves are having. I assure you, I do not have a refined palate, by Asgardian standards."

The cook's eyes bulged, but to his credit he said nothing. Loki suppressed his smirk. He would see how well this Týrvi was at improvising.

"Now if you will excuse me, I will leave Hevring in your care. He has the details of my luggage." He shared a glance with his servant, and left the kitchen in the care of its inhabitants. An awkward silence fell as he left the room, and he smirked darkly. Oh, the indignity of serving with and for a frost giant. How would they cope.

They _would_ cope, however. Loki would permit nothing less.

The walk to the accountant in charge of his new income was no less trying than the walk to his townhouse. Asgard's capital was largely a walking city. There was some public transportation in the form of dimensional portals, and the longships zipped back and forth overhead, but few carts filled the streets, and Loki, more accustomed to the sparser size of Jötunheim's cities, still had to fight back instinctual panic at the press of bodies. The sparking touch of the portals' magic against his skin did nothing to ease his discomfort.

His accountant worked in another residential neighborhood, this on the opposite side of the city from his townhouse, but no less upscale. A small sign out front read in a gracious font, "Ottur Arnesson: Accounting and Financial Advisement." A servant dressed in sober livery opened the door as soon as he set foot on the stoop.

"Master Ottur is expecting you, milord," he said.

Loki acknowledged his words, then stepped over the threshold.

Really, Asgardians and their obsession with warmth. Loki grimaced at the heat of the entry fire and followed the servant to the cooler back rooms, where Ottur Arnesson waited for him.

"Yes, my Lord Loki," the man said, reading over a file of papers spread before him. "It seems you have a sizable living courtesy of your husband's generosity."

"Do I."

"Indeed you do, sir. He has given you a twelfth of his own income to use as you see fit, and being as he is the Crown Prince, it is not an insignificant sum."

Loki would, of course, double-check the man's figures once he returned home; however, he was a suitable intermediary for his plans. "Tell me, Master Ottur, what is the hospital closest to Hríthin?

"The slum? Well, I'm not certain I know."

"Local clinics will do, if there's no hospital. Find out for me, and when you do, make a donation there in my name."

"Of course, my lord. In what amount?"

"I don't care. Make it large."

"As you will, my lord. Ah, there is also the matter of your house..."

Loki raised his brows. "What of it?"

"Well, it is a decent house, in a fair neighborhood, but it, ah..."

"Out with it, if you please."

"Well, it will impose somewhat of a cost on your finances. There are ownership taxes, of course, which are considerable, but it is also an old house, and requires a fair amount of maintenance and upkeep, as well. To say nothing of the staff's salaries. I say this not to worry you, my lord, but to remind you of the... financial obligations owning land impose."

"I am not unfamiliar with managing an estate," Loki said tartly. "The Third Scion was never without income of his own."

Ottur gave an awkward little seated bow. "Of course, my lord, of course. I just wish to note that, as it is currently run, the house will absorb nearly a third of your new income. This does not include the financial draw that proper residence would demand, a full board, for example, or the energy tariff for heating the rooms for guests."

Loki seethed, though he showed none of it on his face. Why gift a house when you could gift a burden? He smiled sweetly. "I'm sure I am able enough to cope with it. Oh--I did mean to ask. What is the going salary for domestics in my neighborhood?"

Ottur opened his mouth to speak, but Loki waved his reply aside. "Never mind. Whatever they're being paid, double it."

"My lord?"

"You heard me. Double their pay, and work that into your figures." If he could not be certain of their loyalty, then he would buy their silence.

"...Yes, my lord. Will that be all?"

"Yes, thank you. Please courier the paperwork to me when you're finished."

"Of course. Have a good day, sir."

***

The next few weeks passed uneventfully. Loki fully moved his residence to Cloud's End under Halldóra's and Hevring's careful supervision, and found the accommodations to be more than pleasant. His room boasted a bay window, and a trellis of roses had been encouraged to grow up around it. He pushed the windows open in the evenings, and while the vines were withered from the cold, the sound of the wind rustling the leaves was soothing.

The servants, too, were adequate. Halldóra was a marvel of efficiency, and the cook, high-strung though he was, nevertheless was a deft hand at a roast. Loki almost regretted the lack of culinary skill he demanded of him; the man was wasted as a house's cook.

So, he hosted a party.

It was a minor dinner party, not one of the grand soirées Freyja fondly described. He chose the invitations with exquisite care, penning them in his own calligraphy--so alien from the styles taught in Asgard--on heavy paper. They were simple, unadorned but for the edging of Jötunn scrollwork that Loki laid down with a twist of _seiðr_. He challenged each of the recipients to rein back their curiosity with so foreign an invitation as he provided.

He guessed aright: within the week all four had replied in the affirmative. Loki smiled and went to Týrvi to plan the menu. Truly, the man was a marvel; with the barest encouragement he composed a spread that incorporated both the understated simplicity of the invitations and the Jötunn dishes most suited to the Asgardian palate. Loki left him to his fretful mutters and went to consult with Halldóra. The public rooms would need to be aired and scrubbed, of course, and the decor was unconscionably bland. She met his recommendations with a discussion of the hall's allowance; Loki hid his frustration. She was right, of course. Extravagances would have to accounted for, and Loki was not so secure as to spend freely, even with the incomes he carried from Jötunheim. He went the next best route: what items he could not procure himself, he drew from his private collection, and what his own collection could not furnish, he manifested with a snap of his fingers. A carefully placed ladder-back chair became a wingback; a rough bench a lounge. Halldóra's eyes went wide.

"Forgive me, my lord, but I have not seen _seiðr_ used so easily," she said to his inquiry.

Loki smirked. "So openly, you mean."

"As you say, my lord. It is a surprise."

Then it was time to wait. He made appearances at the palace every so often, meeting with Frigga to keep face as Thor's concubine. Largely he was ignored; the tumult of the wedding long since eased, it now became de rigueur to forget about the Jötunn eyesore. Loki permitted it. It suited his interests to be ignored, and keeping a low profile only helped matters. No one important paid any mind to the servants, and Loki found he could impersonate one well enough.

It was in this manner that he discovered the hidden hallways, cramped and covered by years of dust, that led behind the chambers of the political machine of the state. He stared at the royal bed, looking like nothing so much as a broken shipwreck dragged into the Allfather's bedchamber, until his skin crawled and he beat a hasty retreat. He waved a hand behind him, and the dust resettled in his footprints.

His days were not filled with skulking alone; he spent many hours in the Central Market, both as himself and incognito, to explore and gauge the political sentiments of the merchants' guilds. People spoke freely and unwisely to a sympathetic ear, and Loki gained a great deal of perspective on Odin's policies, on Vanaheim's, even Jötunheim's--and most of it was uncomplimentary.

"Those blue devils only want their box back so they can hit us harder than ever," one fishwife said over the morning catch. "Just you wait. They're oathbreakers the lot of them; they'll catch the Allfather with his pants down and decorate his balls with icicles." Loki kept the thought for future reference.

"Dunno," a wiry, dim-looking porter said. "I mean, there's the bit with non-citizens going through in the Assembly, and a number of outsystem reps are pitching a stink, I hear--mostly the folk from Karnilla, ain't it? She ain't too keen to be kicked to the side just 'cause the prince got hisself wed and his pa's tetchy over the in-laws."

"Fuck the Æsir," one Dökkálf said succinctly, and hammered the poker he was shaping on his anvil. He paused to look up at Loki. "Piss off!"

***

A passerby on the street would have found nothing unusual about the townhouse on Fallsweet Row. It was the picture of what wealth could buy: long in the traditional style, with two stories and a sharply pitched roof to break off the winter snows. Two oaks framed the front walk, and fresh-fallen snow hushed the prospect with a veil of idyll. 

But that was from the street, and Loki watched with satisfaction the awed expressions on the faces of his guests as they entered his hearth. He stood by the stairs, primped and prepped to perfection, but he was invisible to all who looked his way--even Halldóra, who welcomed them in.

Gone were the boastful paintings of an Æsir lord's accomplishments; in their place were the tapestries of a Jötunn prince's ancestors, woven to showcase the weavers' skill. Their subtleties came not from color, but from the interplay of fiber and weave. Loki doubted any but possibly Fanje and Menja, who came from a family of Ljósalfar textile merchants, could tell their quality.

"Do you suppose he means to court us in return?" Menja asked to no one in particular.

"I should say so," Völund replied. "And if he is, he's doing a damned fine job of it."

Loki smiled. No, Völund would not see the delicacy of the weave. But the sculpture in the firepit--a chipped-ice masterpiece of flame in place of a proper blaze--Loki would be very surprised if Völund were not drawn to that. A light shone upon it from overhead, and the refracted rainbows landed hither and yon. Völund was a lapidary, among his many accomplishments; he knew well, the art of drawing the eye through a medium.

"Oh," Gerda said, and went to cup the petals of the delicate blooms spraying from a vase by the door. "These are stars-in-black-ice," she said. "It doesn't grow but in its home soil; to decorate a room with it?" She shook her head. "He most certainly is courting us." In addition to the nightclub, Gerda owned a florist shop on Greenbelt Lane. She knew the fortune Loki would have spent on the flowers--had they been real, of course.

He studied them as well, taking their measure before he stepped into the fray. Gerda wore an exquisite gown--surely borrowed from the theater--that complemented her ice-pale complexion exceptionally well, and her steps were as graceful as a dancer’s. She was more curious than cautious, more quick to laugh than to scowl. Her posture was proud and sure. She would be easier to speak to than the others.

Völund was dour, as was his usual. He stumped around the frozen glass statue, his gait made stilted and slow by the crutches around his arms, and he squinted up at the false flames. There was armor around his heart, heat-forged and tempered by loss, that would not easily admit trust. His clothes were not fine, but they were sturdy, well-mended, and serviceable. Tonight, at least, he was no more bad-tempered than seemed his usual.

Fanje and Menje were cyphers. Loki, upon researching them, had learned they owned one of the larger grain and flour distributors in Asgard, and that they made regular donations to soup kitchens around the City. He knew this, but it told him little of _them_. They wore brilliantly colored wraps and headdresses, and they smiled as often as they spoke, but their expressions when they gazed from tapestry to glass to flower were unreadable.

They milled amongst themselves as they waited for the host to appear, and in truth it was fascinating to see them interact. They were not as united as they seemed to an outsider: the twins, of course, kept their own counsel, and while they seemed closer to Gerda, they spoke more in confidence with Völund. Völund, meanwhile, only seemed to relax in the company of Gerda, who was the more exploratory of the four. 

Then Halldóra brought glasses of cordial, arranged in chilled glasses on a small tray.

"What's this?" Gerda asked.

Halldóra began to answer, but Loki spoke over her, stepping down and into the visible realm as he did. "Útgardian cordial," he said. "Distilled from glacier berries and the morning dew." He reached out to take one as well, savoring his guests' stunned expressions as he threw the glass back. It was crisp and biting on his tongue.

"Welcome to my hall," he said, and returned the glass to Halldóra's tray. All of them stared, for he had dressed meticulously, with only Hevring's supervision, and he was revealed to them in his majesty for the first time.

His horns were burnished; his hair was braided; his kilt was sewn from dozens of layers of the finest cloud linen, and in such a way that they fluttered about his knees as he walked. He had kept his jewelry to his simplest, most exquisite pieces, and his boots were calfskin.

They drank their libations and Halldóra swept away.

Gerda, he saw, was nodding her respect to his theatricality. He gave her a half-smile in acknowledgement.

"If you're going to grandstand," Völund said, "don't mind if I sit down."

"Of course not," Loki said. "I have a great deal more showing off to do, but perhaps you would be more comfortable in the Great Hall? There are proper chairs there, rather than benches."

Völund grunted. "That'll do nicely, then." He pointed toward the largest arch inquiringly; Loki nodded.

"The sitting area is to the right. Take the chair closest by the fire; it is warmest, and least used." He smiled self-deprecatingly; Fanje and Menja glanced to each other. They swept through the arch after Völund, but Gerda hung back.

"Your pardon, High One," she asked, "but what is the purpose of this evening?"

Loki held out his arm. "Whyever wouldn't I wish to spend time with a lovely young woman as yourself?"

She grimaced as though she were sucking lime juice. "If you seek to play the role of the conceited fat nobleman, my lord, you are playing it perfectly."

Loki masked his frown. "I beg your pardon?"

"I have heard the Jötunns lack gender politics the way we Asgardians do. Let me tell you now: the way you speak to me, it is patronizing and infantilizing, and shown all too often toward women from men. It is a manner I find unpleasant. If you seek to maintain what little respect you have gained, cease immediately."

"Ah," Loki said. "I apologize. This is why I invited you, you see; you have a blunt way of speaking which clears through propriety to the heart of an issue, and you don't insult my heritage doing so. In fact," he said, pausing to meet her gaze, "you don't seem to care that I am jötunn at all, which I find refreshing."

"Well then," Gerda replied. She said nothing more, and Loki wasn't sure if she was offended by his own frankness, but she took his arm. Together they walked into to the great hall.

Völund had settled himself by the fire, as per Loki's suggestion; his canes were tucked to the side, and the remainder had flanked him. "Tell me, Loki," he called out. "What was the purpose of this little soirée?"

"To gain your measure, of course," Loki said. "We know shockingly little about each other for supposed co-conspirators."

Gerda's eyes flicked to Loki, reading his expression.

"Indeed," Fanje murmured. "And wouldn't such talk be better served for the office, not the salon?"

"Madam, we are to be business partners. Pending a fair amount of consideration, true, but it doesn't hurt for the sake of this party to assume we have already made our understanding. I wish to know who it is I am to be going into business with."

"I see," Fanje said.

"You could have said no, Fanje," Gerda said. "Don't misunderstand, I took the invite, too. Curiosity is a powerful thing. But we do like to remember our own faults when it comes to wrongdoing, after all."

Loki snorted. "Wrongdoing. You make it seem like we’re plotting treason."

Fanje smiled and gestured to the tapestry on the wall. "This is fine work. Your own?"

Loki admired her deflection. “No, actually, that is my grandmother's work. Nál, the previous king of Jötunheim."

"Your grandmother was king?" Gerda asked. Loki caught the loaded glance Menja and Völund exchanged.

"Indeed. You were completely correct when you said Jötunn gender politics were a different breed."

"To say nothing of yourself, of course.”

"Naturally," Loki replied. "I have no need to speak of myself, it is I who need learn about many."

Völund scoffed; Gerda gave a sly smile. "I'm sure you know more than enough, already."

"I am not in a safe or strong position in Asgard," Loki replied, levity lost. "Knowledge is the greatest advantage I can possess. That and the element of surprise."

Menja spoke. "Do you not suppose it risky, to meet in your own house?"

Loki met her gaze. "The Allfather already knows of you and your coalition," he said. "And he knows I have met with you."

Stark silence fell.

"Why do you think I can no longer speak in the Assembly? I have gained the ear of his son; he does not wish me to gain any more power than that, and so he cuts it off where he can.” Loki straightened and met their eyes, each in turn. “The Allfather neither considers you a threat nor me an enemy, and therein lies our advantage. He has seen you; you need not fear discovery. Thus, as long as you continue to seem harmless, he will not look twice."

"You play a hard game," Gerda said breathlessly.

Loki's smile was sharp. "We learn it young, in Jötunheim. The Heart of Ice has no time for the foolish."

Fanje stepped in smoothly. "For this news alone this party has paid its risk thrice over. I thank you."

Loki inclined his head. "I'm sure the kindness shall flow both ways."

Her face, when she nodded, was sober. "Indeed."


	8. Chapter 8

The hum of voices was deceptively loud. Representatives from all the Asgardian dominions mingled on the floor of the Gathering Hall, and their voices rose to fill the dome above. Loki watched from the public gallery, wearing his own skin and dressed in his soberest clothes. There was a void of seats around him. Across the hall, on the opposite balcony, he made out the golden head of Fandral slouched back in his chair. His was the only face he recognized. Loki pursed his lips and turned his attention back to the main floor.

The Allfather's motion to deny non-Asgardian claimants a voice had been appealed, and the Assembly was gathering to weigh it. Loki noted which faces bore frowns, and which looked sleekly pleased, and which were inscrutable as the representatives found their seats.

"Ah, I thought I would be late," Freyja said, moving to sit beside Loki in one of the many available seats around him. "My brother was being uncommonly flighty this morning."

"You wouldn't have missed much," Loki murmured, resettling himself. "They seem more interested in socializing than governing. They're already a half-turn late."

Freyja waved a hand. "The Assembly never starts when it is scheduled to," she said. "The rule of thumb is, they convene a turn before they say and begin a turn after. But look," she said, leaning close and pointing discreetly, "that is Gefjon of Seeland. The Seelanders are known both for their highly-trained shock troops and their dreadful lack of metal resources. A bad combination if there ever was one. And there, beside her: that's Mbena, of the Willowent Consortium. They have metal--but lately, no mercenaries to guard their routes. It seems they are forming a mutually beneficial agreement. I expected no less after Dwarven metals raised in price."

Loki raised a brow. "Then politics do not occur during the Assembly itself, as I had thought?"

"The Assembly is for the showy politics. The laws, the sweeping statements, the blurbs for the press. But the networking and deal-making? That happens more quietly. A savvy newcomer would do well to arrive early and leave late."

Loki snorted. "And bring a guide. Pray tell, my lady, how long did you study to know all of the Assembly Members by name, face, and economy?"

Freyja's nose wrinkled with remembered distaste. "Long enough. My father was firm on that account. There he is, now," she said, pointing to a tall, slender, dark-haired man, clad in the traditional robes of the Vanir and nodding to a portly álf on his right. "He is the Trade Master and Chief Ambassador to Vanaheim. The man beside him is Goda Bomenu, Elder of Clan Nobunda, the largest clan on Álfheim."

"I have far to catch up," Loki murmured, scanning the faces of the Assembly. There were many hundreds, possibly near a thousand. He saw faces from only five of the Nine, and Jötunheim was not among them. Truly, it was amazing Laufey had come so far in Asgardian politics as to get a son in the palace itself.

"It is a worthwhile endeavor, if you wish to enter the scrum," Freyja said. "Many who fail do so because they underestimate the importance of knowing the man with whom they ally."

Loki glanced to where Völund sat in the Guildmaster quarter, tucking his crutches beneath his seat. "That would include yourself, my lady," he said. "As we are in the presence of wheelers and dealers, and soaked in the noble tradition of political backbiting, perhaps you could tell me what it is that _you_ gain from helping me. You have done a great deal; I find myself concerned at the state of my debt."

Freyja's smile was mysterious. "That, my lord, is best saved for a later time."

"As you wish."

They settled into silence, and soon enough the steward rang the gong to call the Assemblymen to order.

It was an interminable session, though Loki learned from Freyja it was rather short, as these things were judged. It consisted of this: the petitioner, the leader of the Dökkálf Alliance on Nidavellir, one of only two Dwarven groups allied with Asgard, stood before the Allfather to make his claim: that the ban on non-United voices be lifted. His speech was both eloquent and short. Then the Assemblymen debated. The oratory skills of the representatives varied wildly, as did their views; the longer Loki watched the more it seemed that reconciliation would be impossible. The Allfather broke the deadlock with a request for a vote.

"The representatives will make their choice," Freyja whispered in his ear, "and Odin will either go with the will of the majority or against it. He has the final say, regardless of the outcome of the vote."

"But what keeps him from doing only what he wishes?" Loki asked Feyja as the Assemblymen dithered.

Her smile was cat-like. "The Allfather's reign has not always been easy," she said. "He has sometimes had to make deals to get what he wants or needs. His may be the final voice in Asgardian policy, but nothing forces arms manufacturers to make contracts with the Einherjar, for instance. If too many powerful voices vote against the Allfather's wish, he will concede to their demand."

"'Justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger,'" Loki murmurs.

"Hmm?"

Loki tilted his head, watching as the tallied votes were carried up to the steward. "It is a quote from a Midgardian text. One of their early philosophical texts, I am given to understand." He waved a hand. "My mother found it on the body of a southern trader when he was last in Midgard, and kept it as a souvenir."

The steward brought the tally to Odin, where he sat presiding over the court. Freyja steepled her fingers. "It is not inaccurate, in this case."

They watched, and the Allfather stood. "The voices of our people must be heard clearly; it is in the interest of none of Asgard's allies for the issues relevant to our interests to be drowned out by the shrieking clamor of non-United citizens. We must protect the integrity of our laws against the sly whispers of those who would harm us. Thus do we say: the motion to appeal the Protection of Speech Act is struck down." A rush of voices arose at this pronouncement; some of the Assemblymen scowled or cast up their hands in despair; others merely sat, smug-faced or solemn in turn. From the balcony, the tone of the shouts was decidedly angier.

"You must be going deaf, old man, if you can't hear the swell of voices against this," Freyja murmured.

Loki's lips twisted bitterly. "It was a long shot in the first place. You know that as well as I."

"Mm. It is an unfortunate precedent he is making. Mark me, Loki, this will not go uncontested for long. Every loophole will be scoured out and exploited before the year is out."

"I will watch eagerly."

"Do. Now, have you had proper Plainsman fare, before? I'm famished." 

***

The young lovers spilled from the golden light of the tavern entrance, twined about each other and laughing with the giddiness of first love. He bowed his fair head to whisper into her ear, brushing back red strands as he did; she blushed furiously at his words, and pushed him away with a smile.

The night air was cold, the wind sweeping fallen leaves and dry, drifted snow along the streets in a quiet rush. The couple slipped across the plaza, mindless of the chill, their shadows reaching long against the flags. She tugged him over to the fountain and leaned up against him, running her hands up to clasp behind his neck. She drew his face down to hers.

"Tell me, Loki, why has your alter ego been seen out with a certain cabaret dancer from Hríthin?"

Loki ran a hand over Freyja's red locks. "Has he? The rascal. I know for a fact he's seeing a ravishing ginger beauty."

"He's also married," Freyja said, the flatness of her voice at odds with the way she shivered under Loki's hands. From a distance, they would be nothing more than another youthful couple, stealing kisses by moonlight.

"His husband is an ass. And, I might add, he's not even on the same planetoid."

Freyja pulled back, taking his hands in hers, and gazing up at him with a calculatedly lovestruck expression. "His husband's father is the warlord of the largest empire in this region of the Void," she said softly. "He must needs be cautious."

Loki brought her hands up to kiss them. "And yet, his red-headed beauty still spends her night hours with him," he said. "Why? What does she see in her swain?"

"Well." She arched her neck coyly. "You can't deny this is fun."

Loki's grin nearly broke character, it was so sharp. He wrapped her arms back around his waist. "Indeed. And yet I can't help wondering..." He nuzzled against her ear. "What's the catch?"

"Consider it an open debt," Freyja whispered. "I do what you need, and at a later date I will set what I deem an appropriate repayment."

Loki pulled back, his eyes burning. _The swain has learned he is to be a father,_ his mind supplied sardonically. "That is a steep price."

Freyja wrung her hands, but her gaze was equally dire. "It is," she says. "I do no small favor for you."

"May I assume you won't gut me when the time comes to repay this debt?"

Her gaze softened. "Of course," she said. "It's much too late for that; I've come to enjoy you too much to spoil our association. However." She reached out a hand to his, and her grip was iron. "I will not permit my goodwill to go unreturned. Do I have to cast an Oath over us both?"

Loki broke her grip. "No."

"Loki?"

"I will accede to your condition," he grated out. "I require your help more than I can afford, as it is." He left his "lover" by the fountain, a lonely shadow in the night. It was no less than he expected, really. He would have done the same in her shoes.

It still tasted bitter in his mouth.

***

Loki started small. He began to spend two days out of every week walking the market districts under various faces, teasing out alliances and buying bits and baubles to ease the way. It was in this manner he learned of the greater smiths, and which neighborhoods in which they might be found. All he needed was an entrée.

He struck gold at a jeweler's booth the morning of market day. Crowds were thronging the streets, all eager to see the wares and eat the food Loki could smell roasting. He ignored them in favor of the boy manning the booth, a weedy young Asgardian with an air of dissatisfaction and boredom about his pimply face. Loki smiled, changed back to his own form, and stalked up to the display.

"These are a great many fine pieces," he said, eyeing the rings. In truth, they were shoddy work, but well-enough done that it was hard to tell.

The boy's eyes went wide. "You're the jötunn wife," he said.

Loki squelched his surge of irritation. "I am," he said benevolently. "And are you the maker of these _fine pieces_?"

The boy--no more than apprentice if Loki judged correctly--flushed an ugly red. "Uh, no," he said. "I'm a sixth-year 'prentice. But I, I did make those." He pointed almost desperately.

Loki examined the wares. They were unremarkable, as he expected. Each piece was technically proficient with regards to the Guild's standard, but lacked creativity. There was a sameness to them that Loki found pathetic coming from an artisan. He picked one at random.

"This is magnificent. I will take it. Oh--and include an entrance fee to meet Smith--" he checked the signage, "--Alfrin. The master in charge of your training deserves to be recognized."

The boy’s eyes were bright and awed. Clearly, praise came rarely to his ears. _Perhaps as rarely as the sight of proper workmanship to his eyes,_ Loki thought. It was all to the same; Loki could not move upward through the insular Smiths' Guild without the foolishness of those beneath. It was tedious work, but as Freyja said, it was better to know your allies thoroughly. Loki would know exactly the nature of the guild that supported Völund.

The better to infiltrate the market with Jötunn wares, too, should the need arise.

The apprentice held out a card with trembling fingers. Loki smiled. _Yes, child, just think of the riches that would come your way should a prince forge a contract with your master_. He vanished the card and put on the ring he had bought. _Just imagine if that prince actually did. Idiot._ "Tell your master I will attend him four days from now, at turn fourteen."

"Yes, milord," the boy said, but Loki was already walking away. He had his entry, lowly though it it may be. Now it was time to court the textile merchants. He plowed on through the throngs toward the silks he could see arrayed on the other side of the Plaza.

His visit with Master Alfrin was predictably trying. The man's workshop was at the edge of the tanning district, and thus reeked not only of soot and slag but of the fetor of the soaking vats. Loki drew himself into the skin of an impoverished Alfar merchant. It would not do for the Consort-concubine to be seen entering such an establishment.

"Aye, whattaya want?" A gruff voice demanded.

"I'm looking for Master Alfrin," Loki said, holding out the card. "Are you he?"

"Aye," the man said. He was a hatchet-faced Asgardian, and he eyed Loki's offworlder skin with a jaundiced look. He examined the card minutely, testing three different ways to make sure it was good. "You'll be wanting bangles, I expect," he said. "I've got some through here."

 _Remarkable presumption,_ Loki thought to himself. _Thank all the Foremothers I did not come as myself._

It was a dirty, unpleasant affair. Master Alfrin showed nothing of the slightest concern for the subtleties of service, and was crass and insulting in turn. Loki would accept all three were his art of sufficient quality--but it wasn't. The iron was poor, the supposedly solid gold nothing more than gilt, and the craftmanship clever only in its ability to hide flaws. He bought a bracelet just the same. He regretted the need to return, but needs must: he came out with an introduction to an armorer, one hopefully of a better cut than Master Alfrin. If he leveraged his weight properly, he could find his way up through the web of Smiths to the trade holders and exchange masters, people of true importance.

He scrubbed himself twice over in the sauna when returned home, but the odor of the tanneries lingered.

"My lord?" Hevring said, lingering in the doorway. "A letter came for you. It was addressed from the palace."

"A letter? Not a crystal?"

"Definitely a letter, my lord. I left it on your desk."

Loki frowned, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Thank you, Hevring. You may go."

"My lord."

It had been quite a while since he had heard from the palace. He had no close connections there aside from his husband, and Thor was gone. He had no business there aside from his husband. Either there was to be an affair of state and this was an invitation, or he was being reprimand for his extra-curriculars. Loki couldn't imagine the Allfather would be so foolish as to send a servant with a paper message for a reprimand.

It was an invitation, on rich, textured paper and written in gold ink. His brow rose.

_To: Loki Laufeyjarson, Consort Concubine to Crown Prince of Asgard Thor Odinsson, and Twelfth Scion of Jötunheim_

_You are cordially invited to spend the evening at the Royal Palace of Gladsheim at a ball presided over by the Allfather Odin Borsson and Allmother Frigga Fjörgynsdóttir on First Day-next._

_Plates are 120 Marks(g) each. Proceeds shall be donated to the continued support of the Society of War Widows._

_Please respond at your earliest convenience._

A further slip of paper fell out of the envelope, and picking it up, saw that it was from Frigga.

_I would recommend coming, Loki. Many significant groups will be in attendance. Don't lose your footing in the court for the sake of finding your footing in the Assembly._

Loki's brow raised. So she suspected his final goal, and--he flipped the card over, looking for anything else, but that was all--wasn’t opposed to it. He hadn't considered the possibility of an ally in Frigga; she was, quite literally, wedded to the enemy. _But then, so am I._ He tucked the envelope away and made for bed. In the morning, he would accept the invitation--and consider if his budget would stretch to accomodate a suit of Asgardian dress armor.

***

As it turned out, his budget couldn't accommodate full armor no matter how Loki and Halldóra massaged it. He sighed and went to his wardrobe.

For his wedding he highlighted his outlandishness to reemphasize his connection with Jötunheim. For this occasion, he must do the opposite. Loki dragged out kilt after kilt, cape after cape, but none sufficed. His wardrobe reflected his lack of attention to Asgard's fashions; however he dressed, he would have to dress as a Jötunn prince. He threw down an embossed bandolier and sat amidst the wreckage of his dressing room.

"I will appear as foreign no matter how I dress," he muttered. "I have shown how that can be exotic; perhaps now I must show how that can be mundane." An idea congealed, and he dug deeper into his closets.

By Northerner standards, the doublet was unconscionably plain. But to the uneducated circles of Asgard's nobility, it would suffice. Loki inspected the seams before slipping it on. He would have to wear a silk lining to keep from chafing, for it was spun from heavy wool; but the fit was still true. He smiled. Yes, for all those quiet voices that muttered Jötunheim bred only barbarians and whores, let them see the needlework of Thrymheim. He would swelter, but he would do so arrayed as a prince.

The gala night fell at weeks' end, after sundown when the public houses and salons opened their doors. Loki went amongst the crowds of merrymakers toward the palace, forgoing the municipal portal jumps in favor of walking. The air was cool, for a mercy. His charcoal cloak was heavy on his shoulders, and his hair, caught back in the braided crest of Thrym's folk, pulled at his scalp. Loki ignored his discomfort and stepped boldly. While clothes did not make a man, a rich array helped him feel the part. His smile was keen-edged.

The guards did not ask for his invitation upon seeing his face; there were few Jötnar on Asgard, and Loki's face was memorable.

The lights of Gladsheim were brightly-lit. Vases of hot-house blooms stood at strategic intervals, and fur was the fashion of the evening, for the southern winds blew wicked and bitter cold. Loki followed the servant that appeared at his shoulder to the ballroom. "Hrösvi, is it not?" he asked, and the servant jumped at his address.

"Yes, my lord."

"I thought so. I recognize you--you escorted my mother's party to his chambers."

Hrösvi looked uneasy. "I did, my lord."

"Always pleasant to find a familiar face."

The man's discomfiture grew, and Loki kept silent for the remainder of the journey. The noise of the guests swelled, and Loki held Hrösvi back. "If you would be so kind as to watch my cloak for me," he said, sweeping the cloak from his shoulders.

"Of course, my lord."

Loki pressed a mark into his palm. "For your pains."

Hrösvi looked torn for a moment, then held it out. "I'm sorry, my lord, but I can't take this. Please. You don't need to tip me."

Loki's smile curled up. "For that alone you deserve it. Do you have children, Hrösvi? A wife?"

He nodded.

"Then buy them something extravagant."

"Thank you, my lord." He bowed.

"None of that. Just watch my cloak for me."

"Yes, my lord."

With that, Loki turned and swept into the ballroom. It was the southern ballroom, overlooking the formal gardens, and even with the windows cracked to catch the frigid breeze from the mountains, it failed to draw away the heat of mingling bodies. On the other side, a bank of open doors revealed the banqueting tables. Knotwork was laid into the floor, and climbed up the walls to form brackets for the lamps, every one of which was lit; and hundreds of magelights hovered like fireflies in the air. Light was everywhere, banishing the peace of night. Loki stepped forward, tall and proud.

His doublet was white, a stunning contrast to his skin, and worked in white embroidery; the effect was subtle, but drew the eyes down the clean lines of his form. His kilt, too, was white; it was woven in contrasting threads to create a nigh-invisible check pattern. Box pleats in the seat fanned out with every twist of his hips. His gloves were black; his boots were polished black; a sash of blood red bore his black-sheathed dagger, and his horns he had covered in black enameled sheaths. The effect--sober for the colorful palates of Asgard--stood out by sheer simplicity. A widening gap of courtiers took in the sight of him, and silence fell.

The Allmother stepped out from the throng. "Loki," she said, holding out her hands to him. He took them and kissed her on the cheek, as though it were something he did every day. As though he were her son.

"Frigga."

She smiled, and took in his ensemble. "You certainly know how to make an appearance."

"Half of royal responsibility is knowing how to make a show," Loki replied. He examined the queen in turn. Her gown was deceptively simple, but clever seams and the drape of the fabric elevated it to perfection. "And you are clearly a master."

Frigga gave a small, private smile and took his arm. "Yes, well. As queen it is my responsibility not to outshow the younger, more vibrant guests--but also to retain my authority as host. It is a delicate balance. You have the, I suppose you could say advantage, of being sensational wherever you go, regardless of what you wear. Even in my prime I could not have worn such bold robes."

Loki smirked. "I am sure you made statements enough." 

"Mm. I take it your chief concern this evening is to reacquaint yourself with palace politics?"

"If you think it best."

She smiled to a passing noblewoman. "You know it is, Loki. Maintaining power is a delicate balancing act. You learned a great deal in Jötunheim, judging from your steps thus far, but I assure you--Asgard is not as forgiving as family."

"Of course, Honored Mother."

Frigga gave a warning smile. Then it softened, and she said, "Tell me, Loki. Have you considered an Asgardian market for Jötunn wares?" She walked them toward the dais set at the end of the hall. All around, whispers sprang in their wake.

"Only in passing."

"Think about it again. You seek power; allies among the merchant guilds are the easiest source."

"I'm campaigning my way through the Smiths' Guild as we speak."

Frigga's brow rose. "You don't start small, do you. What possessed you to pursue the Smiths?"

Loki scanned the crowd. Doubtless there were lip-readers scattered about. He spoke with as little movement as possible. "Mutual interest. Völund and I... We each have something the other wants. I'm sure he is conducting investigations into my affairs, as well."

"Very well. But know that if you speak to him about contracts for Jötunn metalwork and jewelry-making your case will be furthered. And there has been a dearth of new fibers for my weaving room, lately." Her gaze was significant.

Loki kept his expression schooled. Was she suggesting what he thought she was? Tacit support from the Allmother herself... If Frigga bought Jötunn fibers, and supported those who supported Loki, those who would otherwise fear to support Odin might shift to his cause. He swallowed.

Perhaps the royal marriage was not as united as it appeared on the surface. Plots congealed in Loki's mind, and he bowed to the Allmother. "You offer sound advice, Honored Mother," he said. "I shall remember your words."

"Do, Loki," Frigga said, turning to ascend the dais and to her waiting seat. "Do."

With a flourish the musicians started up once more, a tripping heart-beat of a song, undercut by steady drones; the dancers reformed. Loki watched their steps, playing them out in his own head. He would not mind the opportunity to dance. He glanced at the nervous faces of the people around him, and supposed the odds were small.

It was a ball, but the chief event was the dinner; Loki had little time to contemplate the dubious likelihood of his finding a dance partner before the gong was rung. The guests filed through the open doors into the dining hall.

There was no high table; instead, Frigga (and Odin, when at last he condescended to join his guests) sat in the center of the northernmost table. From this vantage point, they had full view of the guests.

Loki was not seated at their table. Truly, there seemed little rhyme or reason to who sat where; the best sense he could make of the arrangement was that those with shared interests were placed near one another. He couldn't help his wry smile when he caught Völund's bent figure make its way toward the empty seat beside him.

"Accident or design, do you think?" Völund grunted as he lowered himself down.

"Oh, most surely design," Loki replied. "The Allmother seemed to approve of my courting the Smiths' Guild."

Völund gave him a leery eye. "Just the Smiths?"

Loki shrugged. "The Allfather knows of your extra-curriculars. I make no claim to the knowledge of his wife."

Völund grunted again and settled back in his chair. "I think I preferred the days before we stood in the Allfather's sight."

"You were always in his sight. My presence merely brought it to your attention."

"Mayhap." Völund glowered at Loki. "Was there a particular reason the Allmother saw need to place us together?"

Loki inclined his head. "She believes we might find each other useful trading partners. I seek influence and a stable position at court, and your merchants seek new wares. Jötunheim seeks new markets. I think we might... accommodate each other."

Völund waved a meaty, scarred hand. "There is no market for Jötunn goods on Asgard. And with the third moon fattening Asgard’s coffers, we have no need for what gems the planet has left."

"Then we _make_ the market." He raised his brows. "Or do you doubt the ability of spoiled, fad-eager nobles to set new trends?"

The look Völund leveled at him was eloquent in its disdain. "I don't doubt it. But a fad is one thing--going against millennia of distrust and hatred? That's something else."

Loki smiled. "Asgard knows of Jötunheim's barbarity. They know nothing else. I think once they see the..." he paused for effect, "exotic nature of the Jötnar, that tune may change. It takes very little to go from strange to desired. Very little, indeed."

Völund huffed and reached for his wineglass. "Prove it to me and we'll talk."

Loki's smile widened. "Of course."

Dinner passed in a spice-laden cloud, until Loki's sharpest edge was dulled by wine and excellent food. His dining companions, Völund excepted, were effervescent and witty; Loki delighted in their clever talk, and he made the best showing of himself that he could. They were nobodies--but even nobodies could become important, given time.

There was no flourish to call the feasting to an end, as there had to begin it; rather, the musicians struck up a chord when a sufficient number had gravitated from the tables back to the ballroom. Loki drifted with them. He watched the first set, not quite admitting his longing to join. The song ended, and the dancers applauded, laughing; the next song proved a galloping jig.

"Dance with me, Loki!" A hand on his elbow pulled him toward the floor, and he saw Freyja, red-faced and laughing. "You looked like you desperately wanted to join, I thought I would help!"

"You saw rightly," Loki said, a grin breaking out across his face. The dance was simple enough: the meter was 9/8, and the chief step seemed a hop-hop-back sort of motion. Freyja led him the first few steps until he got the rhythm; watching the others and following her lead brought him up to speed soon enough. They spun across the floor, and the pleats in Loki's kilt fanned behind him as they went.

He bowed after the final chord, and she curtseyed. He spoke. "I had a request of you, my lady--"

She held up a hand. "No politics tonight, Loki," she said. "I mean to dance, and to have fun."

"Understood. However, perhaps we could meet at some point this week? I have a proposition for you I think you will find interesting."

"Doubtless. Have you met my brother, Frey? Here he comes, now. Loki Laufeyjarson, this is my brother, Frey Njördsson and heir to the Nóatún Shipping Company. Frey, this is Loki, Twelfth Scion of Jötunheim."

A lissom young man came up beside Freyja. The resemblance was pronounced: the similarity of their Vanic formal robes aside, they shared the same cut of their features, though Frey's were rougher. He stood perhaps three inches shorter than Loki; when he took his hand, Frey bent over it as Loki had seen gentlemen do to ladies. "My lord, it is my very great pleasure to meet you."

Loki found a smile tugging at his lips despite himself. “You may call me Loki, if I may be so bold as to call you Frey.”

Frey's smiled broadly in reply--a stunning expression, for his beauty was no less remarkable than his sister's, for being of a masculine bent--and Freyja snorted. “Be careful, brother. This one’s spoken for.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of tarnishing the marriage vow,” Frey replied, “but if Thor were willing to share, or even join in…”

Freyja backhanded her brother across the chest, rolling her eyes; Loki found himself smirking despite himself. “I’ll allow you to taste those wares after I have, what say you to that?”

“Don’t make us wait too long,” Frey replied, his gaze lighthearted even as it darkened. Loki fought not to preen overmuch beneath his attention. Such positive regard had grown hard to find, of late.

“Now that my idiot brother has truly tarnished the good name of my family, I am sure we can get on with our next dance.” Freyja's words were sharp, but her eyes twinkled.

"Oh, certainly," Frey said, and interposed himself between them. "May I, Loki?"

Loki took his arm. "Gladly. Shall I lead, or you?" Behind, Freyja put on a show of spurned outrage.

Frey's smile was impish. "You. I would see how a jötunn sets the pace."

Loki chuckled and readjusted his grip that his hand was the support to Frey's. The music started: a stately 3/4 piece that was far too somber for the mischievousness of Loki's mood. He looked to his partner, and Frey, too, bore a glint of merrymaking in his eye.

"It's either dancing it honestly or milking this pomposity for all it's worth," Frey said. "I'm for milking it."

"Milking it is," Loki returned, and with that he straightened to a bolt-upright stance, rigid with dignity, and pulled his expression into solemn lines. In his arms, Frey likewise adopted a crisp, stern mien. Their exaggerated steps and overly stiff, polite nods gave away their intent, however, and Loki saw stifled grins and chuckles from those around them. 

The longer they danced the more Loki had to keep from looking at Frey, for every time he risked it the damned man would make some horrible face or other: crossing his eyes, running his tongue suggestively over his lips, or squinting exaggeratedly at a dignified matron as she hove past. Loki was pursing his lips to keep from laughing by the end, and Frey was no help at all, for when Loki bowed he dipped back into a deep curtsey, sweeping his robes to the side as though they came complete with petticoats.

Loki gave in and laughed. Frey joined him moments later, and the dancers around them clapped. Freyja came and wrangled her brother away to dance with her, and Loki, his mirth fading, drifted back to the edge of the floor. No one else asked him to dance, and he found himself unwilling to ask anyone and be forced to endure their discomfort. He clapped the beat with the other onlookers, and resigned himself to dancing with the Twins of Vanaheim alone for the night.

It was with great shock, then, that he accepted the invitation of Hogun, of Thor's company, who was called Grim. The man was silent, and his face was indeed grim as he took Loki's hand for the dance.

The first turns were stilted, until Loki broke. "May I ask why you chose to dance with me?" he asked. "I am not offended, merely puzzled."

Hogun's answer was succinct. "The greatest warriors of my homeland have shown you their favor. I can do no less."

"Ah." The rest of the set they danced in silence. Hogun led, and Loki followed; it was a simple dance, and Hogun was no great dancer. Loki was glad when it was done, for all that he appreciated the gesture. They both bowed, and parted.

Loki walked back to his stretch of wall, for it looked as though he would once more sit the next set out--until a polished voice spoke from behind him. "Well, now that Hogun's thrown down the gauntlet I feel I must pick it back up. Will you dance with me, Lord Loki?"

Loki turned and saw it was the fair-haired, rapier-wielding Fandral, his mustaches perfectly oiled into shape and his doublet embroidered over with forest green. Loki bowed. "It would be my honor."

Fandral's grin was bright and lethal. "Excellent. The next dance is a swing dance. Have you heard of it?"

"From Midgard, yes?"

"That's right. It's not for the faint of heart."

Loki's smile was just as dangerous. "Then it's a good thing I came to Asgard prepared for anything."

Fandral handed his rapier off to the red-headed giant Volstagg, who accepted Loki's dagger as well. A quick-stepping beat kicked off as Fandral led him onto the floor. "Anything, you say?" The horn solo squealed, and Fandral spun him out.

Loki met him step for step, and he caught the surprise in Fandral's quirked brow--and the predatory curl of his lips. "What about a jitterbug?" Fandral asked.

"Over the top," Loki replied, and Fandral had the presence of mind to brace and flow into the move as Loki flipped him over his shoulder. He stared, eyes wide, and Loki looked innocently back. " _Anything_ , Fandral."

The song lasted perhaps a quarter turn, and Loki and Fandral claimed the floor, carving a circle out for themselves as they pushed each other to new heights of acrobatic daring. Both smiled razor's edge smiles, exulting in victory yet never conceding defeat. The song ended before mastery could be claimed, and Loki bowed deeply to Fandral.

"I will never let it be said you don't know how to dance," Fandral said with a sunny grin. His face was red, and shone with sweat. Loki flushed his _hrímskjöld_ through his limbs, chasing away the heat of exertion.

"And I will always hold you as the very best of dance partners," Loki replied. "That is a rare treasure."

"Indeed," Fandral said. "Now if you don't mind, I feel the need to visit the punch bowl."

Loki permitted him leave, then faded back to the edge of the floor. His own breath was long in returning, and he didn't mind sitting this round aside.

Volstagg sought him out. "Your blade," he said, holding out Loki's dagger.

"Ah, yes." Loki took it back and tied it to his sash. "My thanks."

"'Twas my pleasure," Volstagg said, taking the chair beside him. "I've not seen anyone challenge Fandral like that on the dance floor, before."

"I assure you, it looked easier than it was."

"I'll make sure not to tell him you said that," Volstagg said with a chuckle. "I would dance, but." He kicked up a booted foot. "I am plagued intermittently by gout, and my big toe is aching so that I am sore tempted to chop it off and be done with it."

Loki pursed his lips. "A tragedy, to be sure."

Volstagg shrugged. "I'm sure my wife wouldn't mind, but my footwork in battle would surely suffer."

Loki bit his tongue to keep in the words that fought to pour out. _By all means rid us of your gouty toe, if it saves Jötunn necks_. But Freyja had said it best: tonight would be better served by keeping the sharper, cleverer edge of his tongue in line. Tonight was for making nice. He could be sharp later.

A pair of boots entered Loki's vision, and he looked up--past shapely thighs and an exquisitely armored form--to meet the hard eyes of Lady Sif. "My lady," he said.

"I would dance with you, jötunn," she said.

Well. At least it was a step up from "frost giant." 

"Come now, Sif, we're not at war with Jötunheim any longer," Volstagg said, and Loki held up a hand.

"It's alright," he said. He stood and bowed. "I would be honored to share a dance, my lady." It seemed he would collect the quartet, this evening. Perhaps it was for the best; they were Thor's allies and closest friends, after all. Allying with them could save his neck. 

He took her hand, and tried not to sigh at the stiff way she submitted to his touch. Sif was much like Thor, Loki decided; she could do what was required of her, but either she chose not to hide her disdain or was incapable of it. As it was, her expression was dour as he swept her into the opening form of the dance.

"Not that I object to any time we share together, my lady, but perhaps you could tell me why you chose to dance with me if your dislike is so far advanced."

Sif's gaze, if possible, darkened. "Thor returns in a week," she said. "Will you return to the palace when he does?"

Loki raised an eyebrow. "I daresay I will make accommodation wherever it suits me."

"He is your husband," she pressed.

"Yes, and I am his war bride. I doubt he will much care to see me."

She huffed angrily. "It is your responsibility--"

"My lady Sif, I am well aware of my responsibilities," Loki cut in. "Tell me what it is you wish to say, rather than dancing around the issue like a skittish foal."

Her dark look had become a full scowl. "I do not like you. I do not like your underhanded politics. I do not trust you. However." Her expression became conflicted. "You see the darker doings more clearly than Thor. He is too honorable to see them."

Loki reined in his snort by the slenderest thread.

Sif continued unawares. "I believe you can be a worthy ally to Thor's reign. I can't trust you, but I will trust your loyalty to Thor." Her dark eyes cut through him. "If you prove it."

Their steps were ungainly; Sif was no dancer, and Loki did the minimum required to make her look good. The other dancers gave them a wide berth. "How may I prove my undying loyalty to my beloved husband in a way that satisfies you?" Loki asked.

She cast him an exasperated look, as though this was something he should simply know. "I can't tell you until it happens," she said. "But until then, I will not be your ally."

Loki rolled his eyes. "Is it necessary to draw the battle lines before the treaty is even broken? Honestly, my lady. I may be a cobra in the nest, but recall that the nest is a mongoose's. There is little to be gained for me by starting a fight."

"I can't trust that," Sif said stubbornly. "But I am giving you the courtesy of telling you where I stand."

"I suppose I can respect that," Loki said, and let her go as the music ended. He led her away from the floor. "Let me return the courtesy and tell you where I stand." He leaned close. "A week before Thor left on his progress he attempted to rape me. I bear him no love, my lady, and no respect for his so-called 'honor.' I will not betray him, for my people have much to gain from this arrangement; however, he is as much on trial as I am. I do not trust him, my lady, and I do not trust you. I am not your ally. Are we understood?"

Her eyes were outraged, but she nodded. "We are."

"Excellent. This has been a marvelous conversation. May I leave?"

She flushed a blotchy red and nodded sharply. Loki spun on his heel and went to the doors overlooking the garden. The night air failed to cool his fury, but his put him apart from the vapid courtiers within. He made his way down the steps into the garden, and stepped down the snow-covered path. Scents of evergreen and wood, settling down against the waxing chill of winter, suffused the air. The sounds of the party faded into the background. Loki walked. Above, the gibbous moon limned the hedges in silver.

He was so very far from home.

He gave a sigh and returned the way he had come, to face the fake smiles and calculating eyes, and to fake smiles of his own while he plotted against every person present.

It was his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gefjon of Seeland is based off the myth of Gefjon, goddess of plowing, virginity, and fertility (curiously enough, for a virgin goddess). In her myth she plowed off from the mainland what is now the island of Zealand, in Denmark.
> 
> Frey is a fertility god in the myths. His priests wore bells and were generally seen as very effeminate. Freyja was a war goddess, as well as being in charge of beauty and sex, and the inversion of traditional gender roles in their persons--the male being the sighing lover and the female being the warlike hellion--is wonderful :)
> 
> ETA: "Justice is nothing else than the interest of the stronger" is an excerpt from Plato's _Republic_ , which Laufey found on the body of an Arab trader come to the north. The Vikings had some pretty widespread trade routes, and the Arabs, among their many accomplishments, translated/preserved most of the corpus of Greek philosophy during the European Dark Ages.


	9. Chapter 9

The body beneath him--it appeared gravid and yet was not; its owner had put on the fat for carrying an infant to term, yet was unburdened with child. Her breasts were succulent and full, the nipples heavy and sweet, yet without milk; and her padded hips, glorious in their abundance, strove against his grip. It was strange, not mouthing at his partner's cock, tasting only the modestly-tucked folds that signaled a lack of arousal. But she had assured him she was enjoying his attentions, and he had sent her over enough times to recognize her orgasm for what it was.

He worked a finger in her, the wetness of her body soaking into his skin, and he thought he might drown in bliss. He parted his mouth from her core long enough to suck a bruise into the peach-soft skin of her thigh. She surged against him, crying out. The contrast of his blue hand against her hip flushed heat though his belly. She moaned, grabbing his horns and dragging his head back down to her cleft; he went gladly, latching onto the tiny knot of flesh, easily missed amidst her folds, that sufficed for the jut of a phallus; and as he suckled she arched against him, hissing her ecstasy.

He felt his own flush of wetness match hers, and it was just when he felt the first tremors of her climax that another set of hands took him by the hips and positioned him from behind. The blunt head of a cock nudged against his opening; his breath stuttered, he inadvertently scraped with his teeth, and she tipped over the edge with a guttural cry.

“Easy now,” Frey said, whispering in Loki’s ear, and in a single, slow thrust, seated himself in Loki’s cunt. Loki gave a strained whimper; he had held himself back out of an old-fashioned sense of chivalry, and the heavy weight of Frey’s cock sent liquid tremors of want through his body.

“In me, in me,” Freyja panted. “I want to feel it when he comes.”

Frey shivered, his hips stuttering against Loki’s arse, and he said in a strained voice, “One moment, if you please--”

Loki was beyond words. He squirmed back on Frey’s cock, searching for completion, his own frustrated cock bobbing before him; but Frey denied him the pleasure, instead grabbing him about the hips and awkwardly heaving him up the bed to lay even with Freyja. She reclined back against the pillows, wearing only her amber necklace and a hungry smile. “Bring him here,” she crooned.

“So pushy,” Frey huffed.

She ran a hand over Loki’s shoulder and up his neck to cup his cheek. “Are you there, Loki?” she asked.

He nodded jerkily.

“We’re almost done,” she said. “Frey is nearing the end of his stamina--”

“I’m disowning you.”

“--and I think you are too, my pet.”

Loki bit his lip to hold back the whimper.

“None of that, I want to hear every one of your noises. Especially this one: do you wish to continue, Loki?” 

He nodded brokenly. “Please,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please.”

Freyja crooned gently as she reached down, taking him in hand and ushering him between her legs. Frey moved forward in tandem, pushing Loki into her, and the dual sensation of fucking and being fucked turned his elbows to jelly.

“I’m not carrying both of your weights on me,” Freyja said tartly, pushing him back up. She twitched her hips and Loki locked his elbows, but it did little good; Frey’s first thrust sent him collapsing against her anyway.

“Frey, if you can’t keep from--”

“Sorry!”

“You’re the pace-setter, if you can’t control yourself--”

“I said I’m sorry!”

Loki rested his forehead against her breastbone. “This might work,” he said weakly, and propped himself up on his elbows rather than his hands.

He hissed as Freyja shifted. “Hmm. Frey, move.”

Frey burned like a brand, radiating warmth through the whole of his lower body; Freyja seemed to wrap him in heat. Between the two of them he was melting. Frey slowly increased the pace, shifting his position in minute increments until he found precisely the place that sent Loki rigid with the shock of pleasure, and then he proceeded to drive against it with each thrust. Loki’s mouth fell open in a silent scream, and he hid his face against Freyja’s neck.

“Hush now,” she whispered in his ear. “You’re almost there, there’s no need to cry so.”

He reached his climax first, spilling helplessly beneath the onslaught; Frey followed not long after, and Loki swore his seed felt like molten metal in his belly. Freyja held him upright as Frey pulled out, and helped guide him in his slow tumble to the sheets.

"Ah, Loki," she breathed. "I will miss this."

She helped arrange his limbs, sinking as he was on a wave of lassitude; he dimly saw Frey, in the midst of leaving the bed, plant a kiss on Freyja’s shoulder, and Freyja pat his head in reply. Then Loki dozed off.

He woke to the quiet voices of the Twins of Vanaheim beside him.

“Yes, but if you would listen to me--”

“I’m listening, but all I hear is ‘I am a reckless idiot at the helm of any vessel, please Freyja, let me wreck your yacht.’ Absolutely under no circumstances.”

“Augh, how am I to win, then!”

“I’m sure you’ll find a way. Seduce the judge, that usually works for you.”

Loki opened his eyes; he lay tucked against the flat planes of Frey’s chest, and behind him he felt the soft press of Freyja’s body. He should have felt smothered between the sweltering press of them, but all he felt was a gentle coziness.

“What ship is this?” he asked on a contented sigh.

“Freyja’s ship, the _Falcon_ , which she _refuses_ to lend me.”

“Because it costs more than you do, dear brother,” she replied. “When you turn yourself into a priceless piece of engineering, then I might consider--”

“Letting me fly it?”

“Trading you in for an upgrade.”

“Ugh.”

Time passed. Warm fingers stroked Loki’s hair over his ear. “Are all jötunns graced with your endurance?” Frey asked.

Loki smirked. “Jealous?”

“Curious, mostly. It takes a rare lover to keep up with the both of us.”

Loki stretched, curling into it like a cat. “Jötunns are built to endure.”

“I suppose that’s answer enough in itself,” Freyja said. “Tell us a story, Loki.”

“Mm. Do you have a preference?”

“One we haven’t heard, yet.”

He let the world soak back in. They rested in Loki’s chambers in Cloud’s End, the house quiet beneath its burden of winter snow, and the wind howled at the eaves. Inside, it was snug. He traced knotwork against Frey’s fair skin. "There was a time, so Grandmother says--"

"Always grandmother."

Loki slapped Frey’s skin. "Do not your own tales all begin the same? Do they not start with 'In the beginning'? Do not judge mine for their starts."

Frey smiled lazily at him. "My apologies. Do carry on."

"There was a time, so Grandmother says, when the summer snows settled heavy over the land. The king's eldest son, his heir, was lay sick with fever. The king was frantic, for this was his dearest child, his firstborn, and his hopes for his future kingdom. He watched over him night and day, leaving his kingdom to languish from inattention, and he watched him waste away before his eyes.

"Now the king's advisors were not so easy with their liege's disregard for his responsibilities. They pressed him over and over to leave his son to the physicians, that he was mother to an entire tribe, not just a single boy. But the king would not listen. He denied their words, and burned their letters, and cast their messengers out into the cold.

"Finally his chief advisor had had enough. He laid provisions for governance in both his and the king's absence, and went looking for a _seiðrmann_ with enough skill to heal the ailing prince. He searched far and wide for a year and a day, and finally, on the edge of the Eastern Sea, he found a _seiðrmann_ with skill enough.

"'Please, come with me back to the palace,' the advisor begged. 'Our king neglects his duties to care for his son, and the people languish.'

"The _seiðrmann_ replied, 'What need have I, to ease the lot of your people, O vassal of a weakly king? What need have I, to let a child linger on in painful life when death is a greater mercy?'

"'Have you no pity!' the advisor cried. 'The king will provide greatly for you! You will be the court _seiðrmann_ , and wear cloth-of-gold and drink the finest wine! I ask only that you save one child.'

"'Pity I have,' the old wizard said. 'And mercy in spades. But I will come with you anyway and see this child.'

"Overcome with relief, the advisor thanked the _seiðrmann_ profusely. The _seiðrmann_ said nothing, however, and packed his herb bags and gathered his sling, and ordered the advisor to lead the way.

"They returned to the king's palace, and the advisor brought him to the prince's sickroom. The king was there, beside his son.

"The _seiðrmann_ examined the child, and declared him too close to death to save. The king, thunderous and irrational with grief, ordered him cast out.

"But the _seiðrmann_ was quicker than the king's guardsmen, and he struck them down with stones from his sling. He went back to the king and said to him:

"'Your child is too sick to be healed easily or fairly. He is not too sick to be healed. I can assure his restoration shall be painless; but I cannot promise it will be kind.'

"The king was too set in his grief to pay attention to the wizard's warnings, and exhorted him to do whatever was necessary.

"The watchers expected a show to go with their healing; most other healers did this. But there was no smudge, no herbs, and no protracted chanting. He merely sat by the boy's beside, laid his hand over his forehead, and frowned in concentration.

"'We are in the presence of a true healer,' they said amongst themselves. 'If he were a charlatan, would not he put on a show to veil our sight? Surely the prince will be restored.'

"And indeed, between one breath and the next the young scion's complexion turned a healthy blue once more, and his brittle cough faded away. He sat up and smiled, and the king pushed the _seiðrmann_ aside to embrace his son.

"The _seiðrmann_ stood forgotten amidst the celebration, and he said quietly to no one's ears: 'remember, O king, the price of a healing out of turn,' and he turned to leave.

"His eyes, however, caught on the chief advisor, who had risked all to find him; and his eyes grew sad. The advisor stumbled, frowning, then fell forward in a fit of apoplexy. The _seiðrmann_ stayed long enough to watch him die. The scales were balanced. He was needed no longer.

"Thus it was that the king regained his heir; but while his son was without sickness ever again, the kingdom fell, for the king had lost his most trustworthy advisor.”

Frey blinked up at the ceiling. “Well that was unconscionably bleak.”

Freyja stroked a hand up Loki’s side. “Are you regretting our agreement?” she murmured.

“No,” Loki said. “But then if I do, I suspect it will be after my chief advisor dies.”

“How fortunate that you don’t have one.”

“Yes. How fortunate.”

Silence fell once more, and this time it was a less peaceful one. “Did you have time to consider the matter we discussed?” Loki asked finally.

Freyja flicked her hair over her shoulder. “Come to Folkvang tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “My father will be there, we can discuss it more thoroughly with his experience at hand.”

“I yield to your expertise.”

She traced a finger up his arm, to rest on his father’s armband. “Wear whatever finery you feel conveys your point.”

“Of course.”

Frey flopped an arm over the both of them. “Stop _talking_ ,” he said. “Go to _sleep_.”

***

_Identity: my brother Loki, confirmed. Commence message replay._

Hello, Loki! Hello! Nurse said I have to be quick because it's almost time for dinner, but I don't care about dinner. Today I ran all the way to the South Tower without stopping once, and then I ate lunch. Nurse said it was very well done, and that I would be a mighty warrior like my mother and Helblindi. I don't know why he didn't say you were a mighty warrior, too. You should tell him off for forgetting.

[Muffled noises] Mother says I can get an ice lion when I grow up. I don't want to wait, I want one now. But then mother looked angry. Sometimes Mother scares me and I want to run away. Not like you, Loki. You're never afraid of anything. When I grow up, I want to be like you. Except not short.

[Nurse's voice] Come along, Býleist, it's time to get ready for dinner. Finish your recording and we can send it tomorrow.

I miss you, Loki. Now that you're married you can come back to Jötunheim, yes? I can't wait to show you the new colors.

I love you! 

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

Loki shifted the lay of his pectoral necklace, and realigned the rings on his fingers. He had spent considerable time sculpting the perfect appearance, and it would not do for it to become tarnished through haste. Advertisement was key to this campaign. 

Freyja’s abode was tucked away in a luxurious expanse of parkland in the middle of the city, surrounded by a wealth of plants and sculptured water features. The plants were the empty, withered black of winter, and the artificial stream frozen over, but the closed-in sensation remained. Loki pushed aside the strangled feeling of not being able to see the horizon. He said nothing to the servant who showed him in, and hid his discomfort from Freyja as she welcomed him.

“Come in! Oh, is that what you wore for your wedding? Let me see--ah, clearly not. Is it customary for the Jötnar to wear such elaborate jewelry? Right through here, they’re all waiting.” Loki followed her, and stopped in his tracks, his attention caught by the reflection of the water in the atrium pool against the vaulted ceiling. The patterns were alien, slippery, beautiful. Water trickled down from a fountain in the corner, and he shuddered at the sound of melted water. On Jötunheim, running water was the harbinger of the Melt, and thus presaged calving, cave-ins and avalanches. It was when travel became impossible, and one had to face the lean times of summer storms and slender harvests. Warmth was not welcome on Jötunheim, and free-running water little trusted. He could barely fathom wanting it in the house for _decoration_.

“I insisted there be greenery visible from every window, of course,” Freyja was saying. "If I couldn't have Vanaheim, I'd bring as much of home with me as I could."

Loki nodded. He would have similarly demanded icy vistas, were such a thing possible here on Asgard, so he supposed he had little room to judge.

Freyja led him into a close, familiar parlor, whose walls and ceiling were low. Perhaps it was meant to feel cozy; Loki, accustomed to the outsized rooms of his home, and the immense size of everything in Gladsheim, felt cramped. “Naturally my father wishes to meet you, so, Loki Laufeyjarson, allow me to introduce you to Njörd Burisson.” Two men stood at her gesture, the younger the already familiar person of Frey, and the older familiar only from Loki’s time in the Assembly. He shared his children’s dark hair and eyes, and the cut of their features bore a strong familial resemblance.

“Buri’s son?” Loki asked. “Does that make us cousins?”

“It is a very common name,” Njörd said. “Especially among my father’s generation.” Grey streaked his hair, and his face had the same weather-beaten quality of a fisherman long at sea. “I am Njörd. Well met, my… Lord?”

Loki inclined his head. “That will do as well as any term, thank you--but please, call me Loki.”

“Loki,” Njörd said. “Now I understand you’ve already, ah, met my children?”

“Indeed, Master Njörd. I met Freyja in the Central Market, and Frey at the benefit dinner at Gladsheim two days ago.”

“And I’m sure they gave a _thorough_ showing of themselves.” His words were severe, but his countenance genial, and Loki understood this was not unusual, or unexpected. He raised a brow at both Frey and Freyja; they gave him near-identical impish grins.

“Father, how can you say this of me?” Freyja demanded, from her position on Frey’s arm. “I am yet a pure maid.”

Frey stifled a laugh; Njörd simply shook his head. “I know you, my daughter. I am sure you propositioned our, forgive me, Loki, very fine-looking guest as soon as you clapped eyes on him.”

Freyja huffed, tossing her hair in exaggerated insult. Loki flat-out laughed. “Indeed, my Lord, her first words to me were of infidelity.”

Njörd’s eyes were twinkling. “Of that, I have no doubt.”

“Oh, and this is the loyalty I receive! You remember as well as I that I spoke of the charms of Idunn’s apples, not of my own!”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know anything of your charms,” Loki replied. “I have seen so little sign of them.”

Frey burst out laughing. “I think we’ll keep this one, sister. He rivals you in quickness of speech. May I tempt you both into a flyting this afternoon? I’m sure none will escape with dignity intact.”

“If you want to see wrestling in the mud, Frey, you may carry yourself out the pigs’ pen. You’ll not see it at the board.”

Frey’s dramatic disappointment was a sight to behold, and Loki felt his heart lighten. He may be in the heart of enemy lands, and his allies may be the asp at his throat; but the Twins of Vanaheim were good company while it lasted. 

From the distant innards of the townhouse a bell rang, and Njörd held his arm out to Loki. “That is the call to luncheon. If I may?”

Loki graciously accepted the proffered arm, and together they led the way into the inner sanctum of Freyja’s city abode. All about were plants and flowers, strewn across table and floor with the harmonious abandon of careful planning. Where there wasn’t greenery there were fountains, burbling out water every few paces so that the air was filled with the sound and taste of moisture.

Loki held in his nerves and processed with Njörd into the simple, elegant dining hall. Three couches lay about in a U-formation, framing a small table set in the center with a low vase of candles and flower buds. Palm fronds curved overhead, and a small waterfall burbled before the open end of the couches. Njörd took Loki’s hand from his arm, and gestured him toward the central couch. “As our guest, I invite you to the center seat.”

Loki thanked him, then sat on the couch. To his right, Freyja and Frey shared a couch; Njörd took the couch to his left, leaning upon his left side. Loki mimicked them, awkwardly tugging up the apron of his kilt that it wouldn’t fall and expose himself. He looked to his hosts. Frey and Freyja were both dressed as Æsir, with the light armor and heavy robes most of the nobles wore; Njörd, in contrast, wore a Vanic robe, belted at the waist, of embroidered silk. All were long. Loki weighed his comfort against the potential of offending some obscure custom, and excused himself a foreigner. He swapped sides to lean upon his right side, his head by Frey and Freyja’s, that gravity would not embarrass him. Njörd’s smile was wry. “Perhaps not all of our customs blend well with others’.”

“What would the fun be in that?” Loki asked, tucking his kilt apron back into modest place. “I’m sure one or two facets of Jötunn culture would discomfit you, as many of Asgard do both of us.”

Freyja chuckled. Behind her, Frey was braiding her hair, and was paying no attention at all. “Shall we make mention of our exotic beauties, now?” she said. “Me with my eyes, you with your skin.”

Loki blinked. “I… had not heard such rumors.”

Freyja looked affronted. “I must be slipping,” she said. “It used to be that hardly a day went by without some foolish swain thinking himself the next Anselm saw fit to compose verses to the ‘Vanic Goddess.’ Mayhap you should leave, Loki, and let me return to my pedestal of perfection.”

Loki bowed in her direction, as best he was able while reclining. “As you wish, my lady. I had no desire to claim your title of beauty. In truth, I did not realize ‘foolish swains,’ as you call them, had sought to write verse about me.”

Frey broke in. “Oh, they keep it close to the chest. It’s not de rigeur, yet, to lust after Jötunns. Give it time, though,” he said, eyeing Loki with exaggerated appreciation, “and they’ll come in swarms.”

Loki frowned. “Pardon me if I don’t find that appealing.”

Immediately Frey’s expression sobered. “I understand completely. I have more idiot noblewomen flinging themselves at me, hoping for my favors, and I’m not so different from the Æsir as you, in appearance. Once ‘Jötunn love’ is acceptable to the masses you’ll become the next hot commodity. I don’t envy you your position, my friend.”

Loki considered Frey’s words. "It's interesting you should bring this up," he said slowly. "I have plans in mind to solidify my position in Asgard, and to do that I must have some level of clout beyond what my royal husband brings me."

Njörd spoke. "I don't imagine you came to the Trade Master of the Vanir by accident."

It was Loki’s turn to offer him a wry smile. “Indeed, not. Freyja made mention of your early years in the Assembly, and I mean to take from your example and offer Jötunn wares on the Asgardian market. The chief way of reducing hatred is by reducing fear, and the best way to reduce fear is by exposure. I mean to act as an ambassador of my people, to accustom the Æsir to my appearance and manners, that they may no longer see me, and the people I represent, as wholly vicious. Then, perhaps, I may have more leeway in moving my plans toward the Assembly.”

Freyja leaned forward, narrowing her eyes. “You come to the Vanic trade master for advice. Perhaps you also come to one of the chief trendsetters of Asgardian fashion for similar aid?”

Loki inclined his head. “Just so. As you see, I bring some few examples of Hrímthursar jewelry with me.”

“Hmm.” Freyja’s expression had lost all geniality in favor of shrewd calculation. “They are fine pieces, to be sure. I don’t mean to insult your people, my lord, but incorporating the full rig, as you wore on your wedding day, would be impractical, not to mention off-putting. I can incorporate one or two pieces without causing talk, and more if I spread the wealth about, varying it, as it were. Does that displease you?”

Loki pursed his lips. It felt cheap, as though he were whoring off treasured remnants of home. “We rarely wear the ‘full rig’ outside of weddings. That is the bridal tradition of a specific tribe of Jötunheim, not daily wear. But whatever jewelry you might see fit to incorporate, would not be unwelcome. Further, I realize that our dress is… not compatible to Asgardian morals, but perhaps some of the styles the polar tribes wear would not go amiss. It is colder, near the poles, and they wear more clothes.”

A calculating smile spread across Freyja’s lovely face. “You show me some of what you have in mind, my Lord Loki, and I’ll show you what the Asgardian markets will buy.”

“And I will advise you the best manner in which to bring your goods to those markets,” Njörd interrupted. “Now, if we’re quite done with business, I believe it is time we set such heavy matters aside in favor of lighter fare.” He clapped his hands, and a servant appeared from around a painted screen to set a tray of dainties upon the waiting table.

***

_To Loki Laufeyjarson, Consort-concubine to Thor Odinsson of Asgard and Twelfth Scion of Jötunheim._

Most High One, I have just received your order to ship through Elder Esu's company. I am, of course, happy to oblige you in any way I can, but you have requested shipment to Asgard, via the Dwarven Waygates. My friend, are you certain this is wise?

I only ask because Asgardians are not known for their love of your people. It is not my place to question you, but all the same, I do not wish your enterprises to fail.

Please, I beg you to reconsider. Vanaheim might prove a more forgiving market.

In sincerest concern,

Trade-Master Leba.

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

_Identity: Senior Trade-Master Leba of Esu-Álfheim, Incorporated, confirmed. Commence message replay._

There was no error. Please ship the items as requested.

I am grateful for your concern, Leba; your expertise is invaluable. But in this I'm afraid Vanaheim would be altogether out of the question.

Twelfth Scion Loki Laufeyjarson.

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

***

The Odinsson's return was much like his departure: bombastic. Where he had left with one ship, he returned with four: the state barge, and another three to carry tithes. This time, Loki stood alone upon the top steps of Gladsheim's great portal, his hair and his cloak whipping in the wind as he stood as symbol of spousal faithfulness.

All along the parade route, the Æsir of Asgard cheered; confetti flew, and the promise of a state-funded, lavish feast was in the offing. Loki saw their happiness as though through a pane of smoked glass: he was separate from it, the joy muted, and it was not meant for him in the first place.

One month gone, already. Loki had hoped to be further along than he was, had hoped to make more of his burst of freedom--but each inch of ground he gained represented all his cunning, caution, and determination stretched to their limits. And now his husband was returning, his brief window spent, and the responsibilities which Loki had left lying were surging back from their slumber. His shoulders fought to bow beneath the weight of it all.

He forced them back. He was a mere two months into his marriage; there was no rest for him, yet.

The other barges pulled away as the procession reached the Plaza, forming up before the Treasury; the state longship, however, carried through the sally port of Gladsheim's front gate, down the nascent Causeway lined now with eager nobles, and slowed before the rank of steps, engines pinging in the frozen air.

Thor disembarked to raucous cheers, a wide grin pasted on his face, and his hammer held high. Loki broke ranks at this cue and walked down the front steps to meet him. He bowed deeply. "Your safe return fills me with joy," he said.

"It was a good season," Thor replies, his tone stiff. "I come bearing many prizes for our table." Loki hazarded a glance, but Thor's face was inscrutable.

Together they led the way back into the palace, where Odin awaited them. Loki rested his fingers against the furnace-heat of Thor's forearm and held his shoulders back against the despair.

***

The Returning Feast lingered long into the night. Gladsheim's wine cellars stood open, and her guests strove to drain them dry. Loki sat beside Thor in unremarkable finery, his kilt plain and his hair simply dressed. Thor was the jewel of this ball, not he. 

One moment stood out, sharp and clear amidst the wash of anxiety: Loki was brooding across the table, contemplating the seeming marital felicity Volstagg displayed toward his buxom wife, when an unexpected warmth against his shins drew his attention. It was Hoder, the quiet prince, and he was doing his best to climb into Loki's lap.

Loki froze, tamping back the instinctual threat response of his _hrímskjöld_ to keep from harming the child. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm tired," the boy said, in the typical obfuscating way of children.

"And you want to sit in my lap?"

Hoder whined slightly, and the ungentle grasp of small hands on his kilt drove Loki to pick him up by his armpits and sit him on his knees, as the boy clearly wanted. Hoder grunted in his grip, and once seated, burrowed himself into Loki's chest.

Loki stared down at his dark-haired head. He was so soft; he barely weighed a thing. The heat he put out, too, was remarkable. Loki wondered if he would ever get used to the warmth of this Realm’s peoples.

"Hoder, what are you doing?"

Loki looked up to meet Thor's gaze. His husband had been in discussion with his mother, and Frigga, too, was watching them. A faint smile graced her lips, and Loki could see Balder was in her lap. Thor, however, was frowning.

"Loki's cold,” Hoder said. “He's got frost under his skin, to keep him warm."

Thor's gaze sharpened, and he looked at Loki. "Does it hurt, Hoder?"

A sting of hurt and anger pricked Loki's heart. "I would not harm a child," he hissed. "I am capable of controlling myself." _Unlike some,_ was the unspoken addendum.

"It doesn't hurt," Hoder hummed. His eyes were drifting shut; the wine was potent, even watered as it was for the children. "Yours and Papa's armor does."

Loki looked down at himself, to his bare chest and the mere two knives at his belt. He supposed he would be more comfortable to sit on, absent a mother, than the jagged plates Thor and Odin bore. He would smirk, were he less exhausted.

Thor looked down at his breastplate in surprise. "I can take it off, if you want."

"No, thank you. I'm comfortable."

Thor met Loki's gaze over the top of the boy's head. The warning in his husband's gaze was plain, and Loki turned back to his untouched plate.

Sif's frown lurched him from his apathy. She stared at the boy in his lap, glaring between him and Thor and Frigga, before saddling him with an accusing stare. The back of Loki's neck prickled, and he looked around the room. She was not alone in her anger: the old naval admiral Ægir Ránsson watched them beneath beetled brows, and Týr, the commander of the Einherjar, was similarly disapproving. One by one Loki picked out faces from Asgard's Old Guard, the graying heads unbowed in their fight against change. Sága, the mistress of the Asgardian Central Library and a childhood friend of Odin's; her cousin, Bragi, who led the Allfather's news and propaganda machine, and who was married to Idunn--though the Orchard Mistress seemed little interested in the doings of the head table. More distressingly, Freyja and the rest of the contingent from Vanaheim was absent, and Loki felt himself alone amidst a sea of ill-will.

He didn't understand. Did they mistrust him so much they thought he would harm a child? What gain would it offer him, to contemplate such a thing? Hoder whuffled against his chest and Loki found his arms coming about him protectively.

He caught the Allmother's eye, however, and she nodded, her eyes on her sleepy son. Hoder's nurse came not long after, taking him and Balder to be put to bed. Attention drifted away from him once more, and Loki breathed a sigh.

He sat through the duration of the feast. By his left hand his wineglass stayed full, for even as a month had changed himself, he did not yet know how it had changed his husband. He watched with a clear head as Thor descended into drunken revelry.

He could not leave the table unless it be by his husband's side. Thor ignored him, and on his other side, Fandral was far more interested in the pretty servant girls and the shallow boasts of his prowess to Sif than he was with talking to Loki.

 _What a change from the night of the ball,_ Loki thought bitterly. _I see, now. I am only interesting as long as I bring you attention._ It may have been petty, but he swore he would not share a dance with Fandral Arnlaugsson again.

His only mercy was that Thor was too drunk to find his way to Loki's chamber, that night.


	10. Chapter 10

He had left instructions with Hevring to leave him be in the morning, but still Loki rose before the dawn. His sleep had been restless, made uneasy by the oppressive air of the palace, and he rose as exhausted as he had been upon retiring.

He sat for endless hours in the chair beside the balcony windows, gazing at the sunrise reflected against the mountain snowcaps. Perhaps, if he stared at them hard enough, the bland, opaque walls of Gladsheim would vanish and the translucence of Útgard would return. Hevring tidied his bedchamber behind him, then vanished. Loki hungered for the mountains and let silence choke him.

Restlessness rose in his limbs until they ached with the need to move. Loki tore his gaze away, ignoring the twinge in his heart, and rose from his contemplation to dress for the remains of the day. Hevring had laid out a simple kilt: utilitarian, sturdy, and with sturdy boots to complement. His cloak hung suggestively from the open wardrobe door.

Clever Hevring. A walk would do him well. 

A matter of moments found him outside, surrounded by the dormant hedges of Gladsheim’s gardens. He flipped the trailing end of his cloak over his shoulders and paced down the garden paths. All around he could hear voices and gentle laughter: the sounds of courtiers daring the, for them, frigid temperatures. Loki avoided them as best he could and masked his presence when he could not. He found himself growing more and more frustrated with each new face he had to dodge, and of the sly looks and suspicious glances when he wasn’t fast enough. He swung about in frustration, and his eyes alit on the distant, shadowed eaves of the sacred wood, standing sentinel against the frivolities of the day. The trees were bare, their branches reaching skyward like withered, angry hands. Loki made his way thence, his mind half-caught on an idea of hiding himself where only spirits dared to tread.

The sounds of the city were muted beneath the trees, as though they had come together to weave a net of silence. They were more than old enough; surely they had picked up a bit of magic by now. He wandered down the path, soaking in the solitude and release from staring eyes.

Thor had looked small, at the morning meal. Not so much in size, that had changed not a whit, but he had drawn in on himself. His gestures were few, and his voice low. His friends had noticed, as well as his mother. They had done their best to draw him out, to learn what it was that had made their friend so quiet; Thor had merely deflected their questions, and glanced, almost warily, at Loki. There had been uncertainty in his expression, and no small amount of fear. Fear of what, Loki wondered? Surely not fear of a stunted jötunn shackled into concubinage. Surely not of Loki.

The hof rose into view, and Loki paused before continuing forward. The vines were heavy along its sides, a shock of green against the black and white colors of winter, and Loki was gripped by the urge to climb them, as Týr said he had as a child. Loki searched for a sturdy branch to take hold of. He paused to wonder if this was the best idea, but he thrust the thought away and pulled himself up.

It was an unusual sort of ladder. Many of the branches clung flush to the stone, so that Loki could not get his fingers around them and was forced to search for other footholds or backtrack altogether to find an easier path. Worse, it was unsteady. The vines were springy, and bent under his weight. Loki found himself spread wide like a spider on its web. He pressed his forehead against the stone and breathed in the cool, dry scent of it.

“Loki?”

Thor’s voice, utterly unexpected in that place, startled him, and his boot slipped on its tenuous foothold. He squawked and overcorrected, and instead of holding fast he found himself windmilling out over open space. Time compressed and expanded simultaneously, the trees seeming to bend over him in curiosity as he fell, and he had time to ponder the stupidity of the idea in the first place before the frozen ground drove the breath from his lungs.

“Loki!”

He stared up at the sky, spangled blue and cut apart by the overarching boughs of the trees. Thor’s face blocked out the view, and blind panic roared through Loki. He struggled to sit up, but the iron bands around his lungs wouldn’t let him drag in a breath. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes, and black spots speckled his vision. He scrabbled for his knife.

“Easy! You’ve had the wind knocked out of you.” Hands were on him, prying the knife out of his fingers and bending him forward over his knees. Spots of pain flared all along his back and spine, and Loki swore his head felt like it was cracking in two. He forced himself to relax, to stop panicking, and slowly his diaphragm relaxed. His first rushing breath was ambrosia. He hunched farther over his knees and let himself breathe.

“What in the Nine Realms were you doing?” Thor asked, and Loki was dragged back into the present. He scrambled to his feet and reached for his long knife. It was gone, in Thor’s hand. He hissed, and reached for his boot knife.

Thor stepped back, his free hand raised; he flipped Loki’s knife and held it out hilt-first. Loki glanced from it back to Thor’s face.

“Just take the damn knife,” Thor said. There was annoyance in his expression, but something else as well. Loki stepped in and took the knife. He hefted it, settling it in his palm, though he found himself reluctant to sheath it, or to sheathe his boot knife. An awkward silence fell.

Thor cleared his throat and looked down at his feet. Loki followed his gaze, but seeing nothing; he looked back up, puzzled. What was he doing?

“I thought about… what you said before I left,” Thor began.

If there was ever a conversation Loki wanted to have less. He contemplated bashing his head in against the stone wall to escape it. 

“I don’t want to be… I won’t touch you again, the way I did that night. I think about it, and it shames me. I won’t… do that, again.”

Loki said nothing. It was almost fascinating to watch, the way Thor seemed to shuffle his feet like a chastised little boy. This was a full-grown man, Loki reminded himself. A full-grown man who had tried, in earnest, to kill him.

“You have to understand, I was raised believing your kind were the monsters under my bed. When I was grown, I was handed a sword, later Mjölnir, and told to kill as many jötunns as I could, and when I returned home I was praised for it. This marriage, it… still feels like I’m letting my enemies win.”

Loki couldn’t restrain his laugh. It came out jagged and harsh. “Letting your enemies win? Need I remind you what ‘my kind’ had to sacrifice for this wedding?"

Thor frowned. "It was deemed best by both parties--"

"It was a joke," Loki snarled. "We bargained the only capital we had left against the slenderest hope for a future. And what has it gained us?" He spread his hands mockingly. "An embargo, Son of Odin. We are barred from ancient alliances, we are barred from the profits of our own natural resources, and now we are barred from speaking in the most powerful governing organization in this branch of the Tree. Yes, what riches we have gained!"

He stalked toward Thor, his anger curling black and furious until his shook with it. "All my life I was told of Odin Bölverkr and his Cruel Blow. Later, I heard stories of the rampages of Asgard’s golden boy, the Bölverkr’s eldest son. ‘Keep hidden when the Bifröst screams,’ my mother told me. I was small, you see; I wouldn’t be able to fight off the Sorrow Bringer, should he come to kill me. It was a fair warning. I am a prince, after all, and a political target.”

Thor looked stricken. Loki paid no mind, for once the words had begun to flow he found he couldn’t stop them. “My people may have been the monsters under you bed, but you, Thor, you personally, were the terror of my waking nights. And you still are! Do you think I would do something as generous as forgive you for trying to rape and kill me? Do you? How many of my people have you killed, Angrboda? How many lives has your father ruined under his policy? Answer me that, then come back and ask for my forgiveness!”

“I--”

“I don’t want to hear it!” Loki snapped. “I came here hoping to weave peace between our realms, but I look at you and I see it was a naïve, vain hope!”

These words fell into silence, broken only by the soughing of wind through the trees. The smell of snow was heavy in Loki’s nose, and he was overcome by a bout of homesickness so strong he thought he might vomit. He showed Thor his back and leaned against a nearby tree, taking slow, deep breaths. He found himself trembling. “What would your Allfather say, if he could see what his son truly is.”

He heard Thor’s soft inhalation, and knew his blow hit its mark. Instead of his usual malicious glee, he felt only exhaustion and sorrow. How he longed for the cool plains of his homeland, the taste of lefse and gimpenberry jam, and of the laughter of Býleist loud in his ear. He sheathed his knives and walked away until the trees swallowed him. He had better places to be than with his violent, idiotic husband.

***

"He is maddening!" Loki exclaimed from his perch atop a pile of sacked barley flour destined for Nidavellir. "He is as dense as his hammer!"

Menja glanced up from the inventory, raising a brow. "Indeed?"

Loki waved a hand, jittery with unspent emotion. His confrontation with Thor was but four turns past, and still he trembled at the sharpness of his own words. What would come of them? He picked at a scab coming up on his bone-pale finger.

"Hm." Menja returned to counting boxes of flour. "By all accounts the Crown-Prince is blunt and forward, but no fool."

"The accounts are wrong." Loki slipped back to his feet and prowled along the walls of the warehouse. A new shipment had come in for the sisters' mills, and great sacks of millet, wheat, and oats were piling toward the rafters. Fanje was in the office, checking financial reports, and Menja was below, directing their employees in unloading the barges. Loki had found her there, when he had stormed in as Lopt and in full, nervous dudgeon.

"Perhaps, then, you are willing to join our endeavor fully," she said, her calm gaze taking in Loki's jitters as evenly as she did the next teetering stack of inventory. "If you are so dissatisfied with your position."

Bitterness coated the back of Loki's mouth. Was there no one who wanted nothing of him? "Perhaps I am," he said, throwing it down like a challenge.

"There will be a meeting two nights hence," Menja's indifferent voice said from behind a pallet of corn. "In the usual place. I'm sure the others will be glad to hear."

This was foolishness. It was ill-advised, and much too rushed. And still Loki said, "I'll be there."

He fled from the warehouse, pulling the shadows around him to cloak him further from notice. His political negotiations were teetering; his negotiations with the Smiths were contingent on maintaining Asgard's goodwill, for while they had great political clout, the Allfather's Einherjar were still their biggest buyers. Worse, now that Thor had returned all the rest of his allies were hedging their bets. It was a new marriage, after all, and not yet proven to be a happy one. Loki had heard more than one careless courtier remark that Loki was frigid as Jötunheim itself when he stood at Thor's side.

And what solid allies he had either didn't care for his welfare, or held massive debts over his head.

He stormed through the streets toward the palace. Thor was in conference with his father, discussing the progress; perhaps it was time for Loki to make use of the passages he had found in Gladsheim's walls.

He pulled on a different skin, this of an unremarkable servingwoman he had seen more than once in Thor's employ, and slipped through the palace gate. The guard nodded to him in recognition; Loki lowered his gaze demurely. Perhaps he would get for her a good match with him: the guard was hardly ugly, and his smile was shy.

Loki stepped quickly. While this skin had perfect right to be in the palace, he didn't know where the woman actually was; it would be awkward for her to be recognized in two different places. The nearest door to the passages was down a minor corridor connecting the sitting rooms to the kitchens. Loki hurried through as purposefully and unremarkably as he could.

The hall was empty. He looked both ways just the same, and listened for approaching footsteps. There were none. He pulled the sconce, and a panel of the wall slid back. Loki pushed it clear of the opening and slipped through. 

The passage was narrow, dark, and dusty. He took a step, and nearly let out a shriek at the insect that skittered away into a crevice. He clung to the edge of the door, and when his heart settled, let it slide back in to place. Then he drew up his mental map of the palace. He was on the ground floor, west of the throne room; Thor could be in the war room, or a lesser sitting room, or in his own chambers. There was no way to tell, short of investigating them all. Loki began to walk.

He measured the passing turns by the quality of light that poured through the cracks in the passage walls. Tiny shafts of light littered the gloom, for a conversation could be found anywhere, and the builders of this network were clearly eager to aid any and all attempts at espionage. Loki had found no other traveler, but he had heard many conversations. He used the passages sparingly.

The war room was dark and silent. As were Thor's private chambers, and the Allfather's as well. It was mid-afternoon, slipping down toward evening, and there were no significant political conflicts underway; perhaps it was too much to hope that the king and prince of Asgard would be in such places. Loki wandered further, straining his knowledge of the palace's architecture, before he found himself outside Frigga's day room. Thor's deep voice rumbled behind the doors.

_Of course. Run to Mother's skirts, Thor._

It was a trick to get around to the sitting room, for he had to backtrack to the nearest staircase, circle the width of the rotunda, and climb up a different staircase before he found himself in the walls of the Allmother's day room.

"--lonely, Thor. He has had to fight a great deal of opposition to find himself a place, here."

"I don't trust him," Thor's voice answered, with a wearied undertone suggesting it wasn't the first time he had said so.

A chill ran down Loki's spine. This wasn't the damning talk of policy he could use to buy favors from the resistance, but it was far more--

"Tell me why," Frigga said. "Explain it."

He heard the creak of leather as Thor shifted. "He speaks in circles, and when I press him to speak plainly he spits venom."

Frigga said, "What else?"

"He vanishes for hours, and no one can find him. He won't say what it is he does."

"What else?"

There was an air of frustration building around Thor, and when Loki peered through a hole, he saw the flush of red across his cheeks. "He laughs at me."

Loki heard the smile in Frigga's voice. "What else?"

"He is a frost giant!" Thor snapped. "Is that not enough?"

"And if I said no?" Frigga's voice was cool and calm. "What then?"

Thor looked down at his hands. "Why can I not hate him?"

"Because his is your concubine, Thor. He is here to weave peace. He is making steps--not with you, necessarily, but a great many of them with Asgard as a whole, and I assure you, he is taking his responsibilities very seriously."

The silence weighed heavily for a moment. Loki heard Frigga sigh. "I did a disservice to you, when I permitted your father to fill your head with hate of the Jötnar," she said. "You can't remember a time when we weren't at war, can you, my son?"

There was a rustle. Loki had his eyes closed and his forehead pressed against the wall; he assumed Thor shook his head.

"It was not so, when I was a child. We were--not allies, but neither were we concerned with the affairs of the other. Our enemies were the Svártalfar, and they were far more dire than the Jötnar ever were. Did you know, I went to Jötunheim, once?"

Loki jerked in surprise, and he heard a startled noise from Thor.

"I did. It was toward the end of Nál's reign. I went as an ambassador, to renegotiate a lesser trade agreement."

"What was it like?"

"You have been there, too, my son. It is blue and cold. Or did you mean to ask what the people are like when they are not fighting?"

Loki peered through the hole once more. Thor's face was sullen. _You won't admit your curiosity, will you,_ Loki thought.

"Ask Loki," Frigga said, and Loki nearly jumped from his skin at the shock of hearing his name. For a moment he thought she knew he was there, listening in on them, but no, that could not be. "He can tell you far better than I what his people are like." Her hand came into Loki's narrow field of vision and rested against Thor's shoulder. "He is making peace," she said. "You should meet him halfway."

"He curses my name and the name of our ancestors every time I try," Thor said, picking at the etching on his armor.

"Have you tried very hard?"

Thor looked away.

"I know you have a temper, my son," Frigga said gently. "And I have seen how Loki inflames it. Try to see him as your spouse instead of seeing him as an enemy combatant. Barring that, treat him with the respect you give to the men you lead into battle."

"The men I lead into battle have honor," Thor grumbled.

"He comes from a different culture, Thor. They value different things on Jötunheim. Before you condemn his actions, ask him why he does them. Do not do without thinking first. This is important for more than just a marriage; if you can mend fences with a single jötunn, if you can prove to them you respect their prince, then they will be more willing to treat with you when you become king. That is the purpose of this wedding."

 _I thought it was to crush our hearts,_ Loki thought.

"Father says it is to consolidate our power," Thor said.

"Your father has made far too many enemies," Frigga said tartly. "He did not learn this lesson when he was your age, and is now reaping the consequences. Find similarities, Thor, not differences. And if you cannot find those, find the beauty in difference."

"You want me to find beauty in Loki."

"Something tells me you won't find it a challenge."

"Mother!" Loki, nervous heat prickling up his arms, saw that Thor was flushing red.

"You have more than enough common ground to start a proper relationship. Your responsibility, and Loki's, is to see it through."

"Yes, mother."

"Go on. You have better things to do than listen to me prattle."

Loki drew back from the flurry of farewells and slipped down the corridor. He walked in a cloud of wild thought, and found himself in his chambers without seeing how he got there. He stared out at the mountains. "If you cannot find similarities, then find how the differences are beautiful," he murmured.

Thor was beautiful. And--they shared some degree of martiality and magic use. They were both princes. Perhaps...

Loki turned away and called Hevring to help him dress for dinner.

***

He went to Thor’s rooms that night, as was expected of him. The mead moon of their wedding was over, but the Royal Concubine had not birthed an heir, and barring severe drunkenness, illness, or injury, Loki would not spend his nights alone until he did. He thought of the solitude of the night before with wistful longing.

Thor was standing by the bank of windows in the sitting room, his back to the door. He had stripped out of all but his tunic and leggings, and his feet were bare. It was strangely intimate. Loki took off his cloak and draped it over the chair. Thor turned to look at him; the expression on his face was, strangely, nervous. Loki ignored him, instead moving toward the bookcase in the corner.

It was the only one in the entire suite, and its burden was light. Loki found himself unsurprised. Thor clearly was no scholar, nor prone to deep thought. He caught sight of Mjölnir out of the corner of his eye, resting upon a reinforced table. No, Thor preferred to bash first and ask questions later. Loki turned back to the books, curious what his husband deemed worthy of keeping. Picture books, probably. He kept track of Thor’s shuffling behind him.

There were picture books, old and worn, but fewer than Loki’s cynicism had predicted. Far more surprising was the abundance of texts on military history and strategy, and how worn the spines were. 

It stood to reason that the Scourge of Jötunheim would be well-trained in the arts of war, he supposed. But it was not the martial texts that surprised him--it was the books of poetry. There were dozens of them, in a variety of bindings, and in multiple languages. All were well-worn. He resisted the urge to glance at Thor, and pulled out a slim, ragged volume from a middle shelf and flipped it open.

“Summer grasses  
All that remains  
Of warriors' dreams.”

He stared at the page for a moment, before closing the book and placing it back on the shelf.

“A Midgardian poet wrote those. Bashō. He strove to capture the heart of a moment in as few words as possible.” Thor’s voice, though lowered from its normal, booming register, was nonetheless overloud in the stillness.

Loki turned to face his husband. "'Summer grasses.'" He shook his head. "Nothing grows in summer on Jötunheim. The meltwater would drown any shoot in a trice. Nor do we bury our dead.”

Thor frowned. “Why not?”

Loki restrained his exasperation. “The earth is frozen. We have better things to do than to chip past the permafrost.”

He at least had the grace to look sheepish. “Then what do you do?”

“Some coastal villages bury them at sea, others, especially those close to glaciers, cast them into crevasses in the ice. In Útgard, we leave them on the tundra for the animals.”

Thor thought about that for a moment. Loki wondered if he should be worried for Thor’s brain. “That is sensible,” he finally said.

Loki threw himself onto the lounge. “I’m glad my cultural practices meet with your approval.”

“That’s not--”

Loki waved it aside. “Please stop talking.”

Thor set his teeth. “No. If this is to be a two-way street, then I will not be silenced, either.”

It seemed the month of diplomacy had left its mark. Loki glared up at him. “What do you want, then?”

A muscle jumped in Thor’s jaw. “We must consummate this marriage. You want the Casket for your people, and I want not to cheapen my father’s word. Until we lie together, it will be as a block between us, mocking all our interactions.”

It was a wiser reply than Loki had expected. “I… regret to say I agree,” he said. “However, my reluctance hasn’t eased.”

Thor’s lips twisted wryly, and he sat down in a chair a comfortable distance away. “Nor mine. You are strange, to me.”

“No less than you are to me. Your eyes are the color of flesh, and your flesh the color of bone. It’s unnatural.”

Thor blinked. He looked down at his hands, turning them over, then glanced back up at Loki’s face. “I had not thought of that.”

“You do not seem to think overmuch at all.”

It was Thor’s turn to give Loki an exasperated look. “I may not be a scholar, but I am not idiot.”

“No, but you are a fool on occasion.”

Thor's brow darkened. “Do you deliberately seek to raise my anger?”

Loki pursed his lips. “It’s hardly my fault it’s so touchy.”

They scowled at each other, separated by the gulf of their differences far more than the physical space between them. Loki sighed. “If you must bite back your anger perhaps I might bite down on my tongue. Compromise is said to be unpleasant for both parties, after all.”

Thor snorted, and went back to rubbing his palms together in silence.

Loki looked back to the bookcase. “Why poetry?”

“Did you think me illiterate as well as foolish?”

There was blatant challenge in Thor’s voice. Curious. “You don’t seem the type,” he said blandly.

Thor shifted, shrugging out kinks in his shoulders. “It is the mark of a good warrior, who can compose poetry extempore. It shows quick thinking and cleverness.” A small smile broke through his frown. “It’s also very good at gaining bed partners.”

Loki scoffed, turning aside to regard the darkened windows. “Fighting and fucking. Of course.” He looked back to see Thor gazing at him, an almost hurt look in his eye. Unwelcome guilt fluttered through his stomach.

“What, then, do you read, if poetry is too base for your vaunted tastes?” Thor challenged.

“Anything. Everything.” The words were out of Loki’s mouth before he was conscious of thinking them. “Histories, biographies, texts on magic and prophecy, folktales, sagas and legends. Poetry. Whatever I can.”

Thor’s expression grew considering. “You have seen the Palace Library?”

Loki inclined his head. “It is remarkable. There are no such repositories of learning on Jötunheim; our Lore is largely oral. Books are rare and costly, and most of my collection was bought, perforce, through the Elves.”

Thor looked down at his intertwined hands, and seemed to be considering something very carefully. Eventually he came to some decision, and when he spoke, his words were hesitant. He didn’t look at Loki. “I find reading is a trial. It is slow and tiring, and I have little patience for it when I could be _doing_ things.” He glanced up at Loki, then looked away. “The sentences do not always make sense. I read poetry because the lines are short.”

Loki focused on Thor, now with interest. “I have heard of that,” he said. “It’s common among the Hrímthursar, perhaps because we are rarely fully literate. Perhaps you would benefit from having texts read aloud.”

Thor, until that point listening intently, ducked his head. “I have tried that. I did not like it.”

Loki sat back in his chair, eyeing his husband. He didn’t like knowing such intimate details about Thor. It made it harder to hate him. “So you read poetry. What else do you do?”

Thor gestured toward Mjölnir. “I train. Every day without fail, that I might keep sharp my warrior’s edge. When I am not training I am with my friends, or hunting, or with my father’s privy council, though I do not care for such meetings. They are unnecessarily tedious and roundabout.”

“Diplomacy does require subtlety,” Loki mused, chin in hand. “Tell me, do you play any of the strategy games? Hnefatafl? Chess? Ref-skak?”

Thor’s countenance brightened. “Yes, I enjoy all of them, though hnefatafl is my particular favorite.”

“Then treat the meetings as a particularly lengthy set. You have a goal, and the opposing side has a conflicting goal, and it’s your job to reach yours with a minimum of loss.”

Thor sighed and leaned back against the cushions. “My mother says much the same thing. It helps but little.”

Loki shrugged. “I cannot make you love a thing. You must decide to on your own.”

“Does that include you?”

Loki’s head shot up. Thor was staring back at him, a curiously blank, intent look upon his face. Loki fumbled for a reply, but none came; instead, he stared at Thor, tongue-tied and bound upon the edge of a precipice. He knew a single word in either direction would affect his fate, and the Norns only knew by how much. Did he say yes, and open the possibility of cleaving himself to this man to an even greater, more unpleasant degree? Or did he say no, and throw his people’s security back into jeopardy?

He looked away. “I suppose it must.”

Thor eased forward, as though sensing Loki’s delicate state of mind, and rose from his chair. “Good.” He moved toward the bedchamber door, then turned. “I will not ask anything of you tonight, Loki,” he said. “But we will soon have to face the fact that our marriage is not consummated. Better to get it done with and behind us, than wait and let it fester until it is more terrifying than the act warrants.” He looked as though he wished to say more, but he left the room instead, pulling the door shut behind him.

Loki sat on the lounge until the crescent moon was well over the northern hills. He stretched out his magic and one by one snuffed out the candle stubs, casting the room into darkness, and watched the puffs of smoke uncoil. He glanced to the door.

Much as he didn’t want to acknowledge it, Thor was right. There was no more use in fighting the realities of marriage than there was in trying to shout the sun down from the sky. It needed to be done, and Loki would gain nothing from putting it off.

He rose and crossed the room, his night-adapted eyes guiding him unerring through the bric-a-brac of Thor’s life to the bedchamber door. Loki hesitated, then pushed it open.

Moonlight streamed in through the drawn curtains, washing the scene with silvery, ethereal light. The bed lay front and center, and Thor, perhaps overheated as he always seemed to be, had thrown back the covers to bare himself from the waist up. One hand lay across his belly, and his hair, pale in the wan light, lay strewn across his pillow. His chest rose and fell evenly in sleep.

Loki shut the door behind him and stepped over to the bed. He looked down at his sleeping husband and loosened the barriers he had set in the back of his mind. Wild, half-formed fantasies ran rampant: him, running his tongue down Thor’s neck; marking Thor’s white skin with nails and teeth. Fucking Thor. Being fucked by Thor. Goosebumps rose along his skin, and a heavy, sensuous awareness settled over his body. He unlaced his boots and unwrapped his kilt before slipping into bed beside his husband. The sheets were cool against his heated skin.

It would not be tonight, and perhaps not tomorrow. But soon, he would take this man to his bed, and here, in the silent, holy darkness where only the spirits bore witness, Loki could admit that it wasn't as hideous a prospect as he wanted to think.


	11. Chapter 11

It was in looking to the mountains that Loki got the idea. Here, in the heart of Asgard's City, the court seethed with plots and counter-plots; gossip scythed through honest discussion and brought doubt to the mind. Even Loki could admit he was susceptible; he knew his pridefulness.

But in the mountains, there would be no one to watch. There would be no wagging tongues or judgments. Perhaps there he might find a place to overcome differences.

Loki dressed sturdily and simply in an Asgardian tunic and his own cloak, and packed a satchel of supplies. He handed a note to Hevring. "Give this to Thor tomorrow morning," he said, and vanished out the door.

He left by the servants' exit, on the west side of the building. He caught their wondering looks as they pressed against the walls to let him pass, and he smiled to himself. He was not trying to hide, but to be found. Their gossip would pave the way.

Hríthin was bustling. Loki paid a gold bracelet for provisions: apples, bread, tea, hard cheese, and dried beef--and a very large block of butter, to the merchant's confusion. He layered them in his pack with the rest of his supplies.

Over the rooftops and weathervanes the jagged, snow-covered alps loomed. Loki kept to a southerly course, weaving through the city toward the sourth gate. The guards there blinked and straightened as he passed.

The terrain was gentle. Fallow fields rolled into small seas of winter wheat, and lines of trees demarcated the land from croft to croft. Hamlets and small villages dotted the clefts and heights, prosperous from the proximity to Asgard’s capital, and traffic was high upon the snow-cleared road.

Loki walked for a time, letting all and sundry see the jötunn walking by the side of the road. When he judged himself plenty witnessed, he drew up the hood of his cloak, took on the appearance of Lopt, and bought passage in the ox-drawn cart of a farmer returning to his croft in the foothills. Loki hopped up beside him on the bench. It was an older craft, wrought of spruce planks rather than more durable metals, but the spells bearing it above the dusty road it were true, and the ride, though slower than Loki would have preferred, was smooth.

“Off to adventure, then?” The man asked, eyeing Loki out of the corner of his eye.

Loki glanced at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a lord, and no mistake,” he replied. “You’ve the same air to you as the jarls that flit hither and yon. You can't fool me, lad. It shows like the sun through cracks in a wall.”

“Does it,” Loki murmured. He found himself fiddling with his wedding ring, and stilled his fingers.

It was too much to hope the teamster hadn't seen. “Ach, new-married then. Give it time, lad, and you’ll find peace with your lass.”

Loki snorted. He didn't mean to; the thought of Thor as a lass, however... "They say the heart remembers more fondly the further away you are," he said.

Clearly this was all the prompting the farmer needed. "They say so, right enough," he began. "But when you're young and fresh wed, well. That's different. You need to stoke the fires bright before you can bank it for the night. They say that, too."

Loki rolled his eyes. Ancients save him from loquacious strangers. "Do you always chat with your passengers?"

The farmer gave him a long look. “You paid for this seat. If you don't care for the company, the road is fair quieter.”

Loki spoke not another word, half-hoping to silence the man with chilly indifference, but he seemed not to care. He blathered on in his impenetrable brogue for the entire duration of the trip. Loki let his attention lapse, and he found himself wondering what would happen when his absence was noted at dinner that night. If he was lucky, some great stir that would be told of for generations to come. The day the Consort-Concubine to Prince Thor of Asgard went for a walk, and everyone overreacted rather a lot. He slouched in his seat, brooding into the distance.

The farmer stopped near mid-afternoon to water his beasts, and Loki spoke his farewells.

"I'll be back on the road in naught more than half a turn," the man said, but Loki shook his head.

"I feel the need to stretch my legs," he said, not unkindly. The man had carried him a fair distance, after all, and at little more cost than a singed ear.

"Fare you well, then, lad."

Loki walked until a bend in the road hid him from sight, then went into the trees. It was a temperate, lowland forest, carpeted by fallen leaves. Sunlight filtered through the naked branches to the abundance of understory growth: vines and bushes, and further forward, a raspberry thicket, all dormant in the cold. Loki closed his eyes, dipped into his store of magic, and twisted the dimensions.

It was a longer trip than he had meant. Impatience made him draw harder than necessary, and the blurry, darkened landscape of the In Between fluttered past at breakneck pace. The mountains shot forward in his vision. Loki concentrated, and wrenched himself out sideways back into the world.

He landed on his knees in a grove of pines, and sagged until his forehead rested against the ground. The drain on his energy was immediate and uncompromising. He let his chin rest upon his breast and breathed until the trembling in his limbs eased. The scent of earth and hot stone filled his nostrils. He pushed himself up and looked about.

He was on a promontory some fourteen or fifteen leagues from the city, on the edge of an escarpment of crumbling shale. He swallowed. One wrong step, and he would have tumbled into open space. Below, he could see the scree of fallen rock; behind, a row of sturdy, wind-beaten pines marched along the top of the ridge. The smell of pitch resins filled his nostrils, and the only sound in his ears was the distant scream of a falcon. The wind was noticeably cooler; the hairs along his arms and chest rose, pimpling his skin, and he shivered. The city gleamed in the distance.

His stomach growled. Suddenly ravenous, he rooted through his pack of supplies and unearthed a strip of dried meat and a wedge of cheese. These he ate, relishing the simple, unembellished taste of honest food, and washed them down with water from his flask. A measure of strength returned to him. He stood, and turned to the north.

The massif of the Asgardian mountains was no longer distant, but hidden by the immediacy of its own bulk. Thickly forested hills rose ever higher to meet the descending ridges, and snow crept down from the heights. Loki could smell it. It smelled different from Jötunheim: it was too wet and gentle--but it was familiar nonetheless. A knot loosened in his chest, and he found the will to place one foot before the other. He would have to eat heartily of his supplies when he rested for the night, which he had hoped to avoid. What was done was done, however, and he had no choice but to deal with the consequences of his hastiness.

Time passed slowly, the diurnal constellations wheeling overhead in a protracted dance, and Loki found himself miserably pleased that his Æsir disguise tolerated the punishing heat better than his natural form. His skin grew damp beneath the wan sunlight, and his cheeks tightened and started to sting, but it was a vast improvement over the shrunken, overheated wretch he would have become otherwise.

The shadows lengthened as he walked, and the air grew cooler. The hundred little discomforts of the day built up in his mind--the blisters on his heels, the sunburn across his nose and cheeks, and the gnawing, empty ache in his stomach. He waited until a broad snowfield presented itself, and he pulled his _hrímskjöld_ about him. He knew a moment of piercing cold before the blue rushed back into his skin. His limbs lost their thrumming energy; his heart slowed back to normal. The resurging heat was almost more than he could bear, and he toppled himself face-forward into the snow. He let out a groan of bliss.

He rolled himself about, feeling as for the first time the sweet bite of cold into his perpetually over-warm skin. If this was winter Loki couldn’t imagine what high summer, when the days were at their longest, must be like.

Eventually he pried himself from his snowy bed and carried forth, this time searching for a suitable place to stop.

There. A gap beneath a tree whose roots had been washed out by meltwater. Snow bedded it now, and enough of an overhang stood out to protect Loki from any unusual weather. He drove himself toward it with the last of his will, curled up beneath the tangled, rooty rafters, wrapped himself in his cloak, and fell immediately asleep.

***

He woke to the sound of wings, and curious chirps. He opened his eyes; a bright red bird, pure crimson but for the smears of black around its beak, eyes, and wingtips, stared back at him, tilting its head from one side to the other, as though sizing him up for breakfast. Its tiny claws pricked his chest through his tunic. He rolled over, dislodging the bird, and watched it fly away in a torrent of huffy chirps. He crawled from his cranny and straightened to face the day.

The sun was only just rising, casting its early rays over the distant towers rising by the sea shore. The water glistened, and beyond, the stars swallowed the dawn whole. Loki turned and faced north, up the mountains. He walked.

As he did, he ate from his stores. He had two latkes left, wrapped about slices of meat and preserved by his magic, and three apples. It would not last him long; a vast, gnawing hunger ate at his belly, relic of yesterday's over-expenditure. He gathered long sapling branches as he walked, and peeled bark from likely trees. Behind, he swept away the evidence of his footprints. They were sparse; he was Jötunn. He knew how to walk on snow in ways that hid his passage.

He hiked most of the day, following a ravine upwards as the grade permitted, and jumping through the In Between only when circumstance demanded. Another sheer cliff face reared above him, and rather than jump it, He consented to climb it. He reveled in the ache in his muscles, the tremble of his fingers against a miniscule handhold. He rested at the top, and ate one of his apples. He flicked the core off the edge.

He stopped to hunt in late afternoon, forging the snow into sleek darts. He scented the air, and catching a whisp of musk, trotted perpendicular to his course, leaping between the silent trees until he found what he was looking for: a game trail, recently used, and still marked by the cooling spoor of his prey. He slipped along its precipitous track, pausing to scout for sign.

His quarry was herbivorous, by the shape and constitution of its scat; it was middling-sized to small, judging from its hoof-prints. It left strange striations on the bark of the trees at around Loki's shoulder-height. He followed, curious as well as hungry.

There. He heard snuffling and scraping. Loki froze, and raised one of his darts to a ready position. He stepped forward, draining his mind of thought and staring blindly into the middle distance. He lowered his foot with exquisite care. Each step took him insignificantly closer, until he saw a flash of tan through the trees, bold against the snow. He saw only the hindquarters at first, until the creature moved and a sturdy neck lowered its gracile head to the scraped-back snow. A crown of twisted antlers stood from its brow.

Loki watched the deer, studying its patterns; it would graze for a moment, then raise its head to look around before returning to forage. When it had extinguished the grasses to be found it moved several steps over, scraped back the snow, and repeated the cycle. Loki began timing his approach to its pattern, freezing when it looked about, and advancing as it ate. The dart was eager in his hand, though he held back from loosing it. It was not yet time.

There--the deer shifted, reaching for a patch of green through the snow. The broad side of its body faced Loki's hiding place. He raised the dart and let fly.

He feasted on venison that night.

***

The next morning found Loki above the treeline, in more familiar-seeming territory. Asgard's mountains were prodigious; Loki wouldn't be surprised if ice and snow draped their peaks year-round. He found a rimed glen, little more than a depression in the icy, snow-dusted rock, and settled himself in. He contemplated the lay of the land for a moment. There was a broad, flat terrace on the northern prospect, and a natural windbreak curling partially around the sides. A small pile of deadfall drifted against the windward side. He looked, and then he got to work.

The broadest, flattest branch he dragged to the center of the clearing. He ripped away a corner of his cape; this he tore into shreds, and arrayed it around the branch. He gathered pebbles and stones, and laid upon the ground a flat foundation, enough to demarcate innangard from utangard, and in the far corner he laid a small fire.

He stood back, and with a flash of his _seiðr_ and a wave of his hands, a cottage, unassuming if cozy, rose from the bedrock. Loki narrowed his eyes. It was decidedly more Asgardian than he had intended. He swept his hand, and the chimney vanished along with the corners, leaving only a properly round Jötunn cottar's lodge. The natural windbreak he remolded to properly shelter it from risk of avalanche and gale. Loki shouldered his pack and pushed through the door.

Soothing gradients of shadow met his eyes. The outside of the cottage was plain, undressed stone, the same upon which it sat, but inside Loki had adorned it with the pride of a jötunn’s history. He squatted before the stove. His reprieve would be short-lived, and he would have to return--but he would savor his escape as long as he could. He stoked the fire and set to make tea.

The day was one of silence. Loki neither spoke nor sang, and all his cantrips he kept silent. The only sounds were the wuthering of the wind over the rocks, the sighing of the bushes, and the barking of a pika, distressed by Loki's intrusion upon his territory.

Loki spent the time in preparation. The tea brewed through the day, ladening the air of the lodge with the smell of home, and Loki breathed it deeply. He set aside another pot for stew and filled it with venison and the few small vegetables and plants he had found that he knew were edible.

He was gathering brush and dried dung for the fire when at once rose a ferocious gale, whipping dirt and wisps of snow into the air as it spun. As quickly as it had arrived, just as quickly the wind died down, leaving aching silence in its wake. Loki sighed. His reprieve was at an end. He abandoned his efforts and carried what little he had gathered back to the lodge.

Thor was waiting for him. His face was dark and forbidding, and his fists were clenched--though mercifully his hammer was at his belt, not in his hand. Loki stood outside the wind barrier, schooling his face to an impassive mask as he looked down on his husband.

"You will explain yourself," Thor growled.

Loki gazed at him for a moment. His cheeks were red with windburn, and his breath seemed shallow--though Loki supposed it could as likely be the altitude as Thor’s temper. He stepped around the windbreak and into the dell, skirting Thor to deposit the kindling inside the door. He glanced back out; the thunderclouds were darkening over Thor's brow.

"Come inside," he said. "The tea is nearly ready."

There--cracks in the facade. Thor was confused, set off his balance--but also curious. He followed Loki in, letting the heavy tapestry swing back to cover the door in his wake.

Loki had spared no effort for the interior of his cottage. Tapestries lined the walls, illustrating in the dark, muted colors of Jötunheim the power and majesty of his ancestors, right back to the Beginning, to the Age of Ymir, when the deeds of heroes were shrouded in the mists of legend. Intricate patterns edged each work, showing off the skill and resources of his clan. Beneath their feet, silk rugs, both golden and dyed, offered their rich pile to tempt bare feet. The furnishings were clean-lined, but intricately inlaid with stone and different patterned woods; the effect was subtle, but pleasing. The stove sat in the corner, and on it simmered a pot of tea leaves.

"Loki, what is this?" Thor asked, frowning. "What are you doing?"

"This is tea," Loki replied. "You may sit there, at the table." Thor looked to the table. Loki wondered what he saw. It was a Jötunn nomad's table, light and easily broken down for travel. It was low to the ground, surrounded by pillows; Thor selected one of these and sat. He looked awkward and out of place, in this muted, quiet room.

Loki turned away and took the tea off the stove. He poured it into a small churn, and added in a quantity of the butter he had purchased. Then he churned them together. The rhythmic motion settled his thoughts for the conversation to come.

He poured the thick mixture into the teapot, then placed two bowls on the table, one before Thor. He found himself waiting for Thor to admire the craftsmanship, or perhaps to compliment the unique nature the gold-glued shards lent the design; but Thor was Asgardian, and Æsir to boot. He merely glanced between the bowl and Loki in puzzlement. Loki sighed and filled both bowls to the brim. He set aside the pot and raised his bowl to his lips, savoring the warmth bleeding into his fingers and the smell of childhood. The tea was thick and salty on his tongue.

Thor, he saw, grimaced at the taste, though he tried not to show it. He set down the bowl. "Loki," he said, and his voice was gentler, though no less determined. "What are you doing?"

Loki sipped his tea and looked around to the hangings. He should not have expected Thor to behave politely. He was not Jötunn. That was why they were here, after all. Foolish hopes were seldom rational, however.

"This is a jötunn's hearth lodge," he said. "Or the semblance of one. Were my mother not First Scion, this is what my home might have looked like."

Thor blinked, then looked around with new eyes. Loki watched him assess all that he saw, and his surprise was gratifying.

"Not quite a book of haiku."

Thor cracked a grin. "No. Still a surprise, though. This is how you... how jötunns live?"

Loki shrugged. "How some do. This is the traditional way of the glacial villages; most live in the cities, nowadays. Útgard, Thrymheim, Gastropnir. You know them. Only the poorest and wildest of us still live in lodges."

Thor looked down at his cup, then at the hangings on the wall. He took another sip. "Trust the Jötnar to ruin perfectly good tea."

Loki's grin felt brittle. "What you Æsir drink is tea only in the most generous sense. What good is a drink that fails to brace you from the cold? The tundras of Jötunheim are harsh even to us. The butter in _smjörte_ stokes the fires, the tea keeps us awake, the salt replenishes what we lose through exertion, and the grease protects the lips and throat from the wind." He swirls the tea about in his bowl. "It's nearly a meal unto itself."

There was silence for a time, after Loki finished speaking. He could sense the questions piling up in Thor's mind, and also his hesitance to broach any of them. He rolled his eyes. "Just pick one and ask it, you dolt."

"Is it true you don't mind receiving, in sex?" Thor's eyes widened, as though he hadn't meant that to come out first, and he flushed red.

Loki started laughing. "That's the burning question eating at you? Of all the possible questions, you ask if I like being fucked?" He set down his tea, lest he spill it.

The blood rushed high in Thor's cheeks. "There's no call to laugh."

"No, there absolutely is," Loki replied, giggling. "Surely you've at least tried...?"

"A finger or two," Thor says quickly. "Never a cock."

"Mm." Loki felt himself calming, and he risked another sip of tea. "Well, I can't speak for how you will feel it, as you and I don't share the same anatomy, but I have read enough to know of yours. You have heard of the pleasure gland?"

Thor nodded. "It makes for a powerful climax." His cheeks still flamed, and he could not quite meet Loki's gaze.

"Well, that should make the experience pleasurable enough, though there are... other pleasures in being fucked than merely prodding the right button."

Thor looked confused, and more than a little apprehensive; Loki patted his hand. "I'm not sure you're ready for that, though." He kept his tone just skirting the edge of patronizing. "Any other suitably embarrassing questions?"

Thor's gaze turned pensive, and stared into the middle-distance. "I have a great many," he said, "and not all are complimentary." He glanced to Loki. "I beg your patience; I ask from ignorance, and with a desire to know better."

Well. At least it was well-said. Loki nodded his acceptance, and braced himself.

He was not disappointed. "Is it true the Jötnar kill their unfit children?" Thor said it with a smile; clearly he expected the question to be dismissed outright.

Loki's lips twisted in a bitter smile. "Not directly," he said. "Jötunheim is more than willing to do it for us."

The look of surprise on his husband's face was delightful; the burgeoning outrage, less so. Loki cut off his indignant reply. "My land is harsh, Asgardian. I have said it a thousand times, I will doubtless say it a thousand times more: Jötunheim does not suffer the weak to live. An infant's _hrímkjöld_ does not develop fully in the womb, protected as he is by his mother's warmth. His first days of life are a trial by cold. If he survives, he is welcomed into the family and his tribe. If he dies, he is mourned and his body disposed of. There is no use sheltering one who would drain scant resources merely for tenderheartedness. We cannot do so and survive." He pointedly refilled Thor's half-empty bowl of tea up to the brim. "Besides, you were eager enough to kill my own children, should I bear any."

Thor swallowed, and picked at a splinter jutting up from the table. His expression was stormy and conflicted. "I regret those words," he said. His voice was deep with emotion. "They were said in the height of passion, with the intent to hurt. I do not hold those sentiments in truth, if I ever did."

Loki gazed at him for a time and considered forgiveness. Instead, "What more questions do you have?"

"Is it true the Jötnar eat their food raw?"

Loki snorted. He summoned an apple from his pack and lobbed it at Thor's head; only his husband's quick reflexes saved him from indignity. Thor grinned self-deprecatingly and bit into the apple with a loud crunch.

"There are some meat dishes that traditionally aren't cooked over a fire, as heat is as precious a commodity as water. Pickling, fermenting, and aging are all methods to obtain a desired flavor or consistency. Sometimes, however, on a hunt, when time and fuel are scarce, we do not quibble over the doneness of our food. Some tribes of the Ribs eat the heart fresh and steaming from the animal. Likewise when fishing. The sea-tribes of Gastropnir have made an art of serving raw fish." Loki savored the warmth of his tea. "Does that answer your question?"

"Yes." Thor held up the apple core, raising a questioning brow; Loki indicated a bin by the door. Thor threw it neatly in the bin. "One last question. Do the Jötnar practice sorcery?"

Loki raised a brow. "How on earth did you think this cottage was raised?"

Thor's eyes scanned over the walls once more, and he gave an acknowledging shrug. "I hadn't thought about it, truly. Is it different from the ice-shield?"

"Very."

"How so?"

"Why, curious in learning the subtlest art?"

Thor's grimace of distaste was almost reflexive. "No. Just curious."

Loki tilted his head at Thor. "It's little different from you summoning your lightning, I imagine. Except, perhaps more conscious."

Thor scowled, but to his credit he didn't object to the comparison outright. "I do no _seiðr_. That which I wield is war-craft."

"Such a fine distinction. Pray, what is the difference?"

Thor's expression was a curious one; Loki wasn't sure what to make of it. " _Seiðr_ is women's work. Forecasting. Shapeshifting. Raising the dead. Bewitchment. Luck-taking."

"As opposed to war-craft, which is..."

"Enhancing strength and luck in battle, either of an individual or a weapon."

"And the difference? I mean, why is the one better than the other?"

Thor looked frustrated. " _Seiðr_ is dishonest. It lies and conceals. It gives with one hand and takes with the other. It lacks honor. War-craft does not lie or cheat. It is skill measured against skill, luck against luck. There is no concealment about what I do."

"No indeed," Loki muttered. "You say sorcery is women's work. You have seen me, you understand my people. We cheat death every day we fight back the cold. Why shouldn't we use every tool at hand to live one day longer?"

Thor frowned. "Then all Jötunns use sorcery?"

Loki waved a hand. "Of course not. It's an inborn gift, just like your martial prowess. We simply fear it less than you Asgardians seem to, though there are tribes that distrust their _seiðrmenn_ outside of the temple."

"What about you?"

"My father was from the Glæsisvellir. They revere sorcery there, and hold their sorcerers in high esteem. I learned from the greatest _seiðrman_ of Fárbauti's tribe, Gudmund Úlfhédinn, as I could not learn from my father himself. Gudmund taught me many things, not the least of which was sorcery. I spent near three hundred years under his tutelage. Ah, Thor, you cannot imagine the beauty of the plains on a winter morning. The suns just lighting the western horizon, refracting through the frosted grass and sending rainbows across the white-rimed plain..."

"You could make an illusion of it, could you not?"

Loki looked over to his husband. Thor was listening intently, his expression sober. Loki gave a sharp grin. "It'd be a bit of a wait."

"Is it a complicated spell?"

"It's easy enough."

"Then why?"

The joke lost its humor, and Loki sighed. "It requires a great deal of concentration and mental preparation. I have to, in effect, remove my mind from Asgard and place it in the Glæsisvellir. It's... difficult. There are memories I would rather not revisit."

"Ah." Thor's face was sober, his eyes understanding. Of course. He was a warrior; he knew the heartache of unpleasant memories.

The silence that fell was a deeper, commiserating one. Loki found himself brooding, but was loath to pull himself out. It seemed a great deal of effort for so little gain.

His contemplation was disturbed by Thor slapping his hands down on the table. "We have talked. Now it is time to _do_. Come, what war games to the Jötnar play? I would spar with you." He rose to his feet. 

Loki looked askance at him, or as best he could with him towering over the table. "Our games are rather different from the Æsir's."

Thor rolled his eyes. "That's the point of learning them. Besides, you took to our ways easy enough."

"That's because they are ludicrously simple." He sighed, but rose to his feet. "Come. There is not sufficient room in here."

He led Thor outside, to the flat yard he had made in reshaping the stone. He turned and faced him, noting the lowering position of the sun overhead. He cleared his throat. "There are steps within steps in Hrímthursar combat. Each action we take has meaning. Each attack, each defense, each gambit we plan, serves to tell a story in motion. We can tell of the fall of kings in a sparring match, or disconnected strings of gibberish. The very best sparring partners can compose complete stories unrehearsed. All the major stories of the Lore have war-dances to act them out."

Thor narrowed his eyes at him. "You're actually serious."

Loki pursed his lips, then stepped back. He threw one arm skyward, as though painting the journey of a sun across the heavens-- "There was a time..." He drew a graceful arc from his lips down his chest, over the mother-line-- "So Grandmother says...

"When there existed two tribes, close but apart. The first was a tribe of hunters. They lived near the source of the River Ifing, beneath the roots of Bergelmir's Glacier. They hunted the reindeer and the fox. Their numbers were small but hardy, and grew clever from need. Their leader was called Útgarda-Loki. 

"The second dwelt near the sea, where the Ifing poured out its yield into the Gulf of Gastropnir. They lived tucked into the sides of the fjords, and daily their fishermen braved dragons and storms to bring in the bounty of the sea. They grew rich and prosperous, for the sea gives much despite all that he takes. Their leader was Menglöd."

All through this recitation Loki danced, forming the correspondences and naming them in a soft monotone. Thor faded, the mountains faded; all that remained was the dance, and the story with it.

"Now for many ages neither tribe knew of the other, for the River Ifing is long and neither tribe could spare the jötunn to traverse it. Until one night a dream came to Útgarda-Loki, that showed him following the river until it fed out into the sea; and there he met the most wondrous jötunn, fair and wise, who welcomed him with open arms. 'I am Menglöd,' the vision whispered in his ear. 'Come to me.'

"Útgarda-Loki woke in a frenzy. He called to him his second, Skrýmir, and the tribe's völva, Gróa, to interpret his vision. Skrýmir said, 'Surely you must not heed this vision! It is the work of a huldra, a näck, a baneful wight! Do not trust this dream, High One."

"Útgarda-Loki turned then to Gróa, and asked him, 'What do you see, Wise One? Is this no more than a wild creature's trap?'

"And Gróa replied, 'Long is the way, long must thou wander, / But long is love as well; / Thou mayest find, perchance, what thou fain wouldst have, / If the Norns their favor will give.'

"His hope thus kindled, Útgarda-Loki left his tribe in Skrýmir's able hands, and, armed with the blessing of nine spells that Gróa gave to him, set down the River Ifing on the memory of a dream. Many were his adventures on this road.

"When Útgarda-Loki came at last to the sea, he strode upon the rocky beach to find his Menglöd--but there was no one there. Perhaps he was no more than an eidolon, a vision conjured by mist and water, to draw him from his home.

"Útgarda-Loki despaired. He wandered for three days and three nights in a fog of longing, calling for Menglöd. So caught in his grief was he that he did not notice the ring of warriors surrounding him until it was too late. 

"'Who are you, that trespass on the tribal lands of Gastropnir!' cried their leader, pressing his knife to Útgarda-Loki's throat.

"'I am Svipdag,' Útgarda-Loki said. 'I come from the north, on behalf of my First.'

"The warriors conferred amongst themselves, deliberating whether to take him to their First or to cut his throat and toss him into the sea for the dragons to dispose of. Útgarda-Loki was greatly relieved when they decided on the former, and submitted to the bonds they placed on him.

"They brought him to a great hall carved into the side of the fjord, the only entrance to which was a narrow, precipitous ledge that ran high above the breakers. The hall was richly appointed in mother-of-pearl, and the jötunn seated upon the high chair was none other than Menglöd, his eidolon.

"'Who is this, that is brought before me?' Menglöd demanded, and Útgarda-Loki sighed at the sound of his voice.

"'I am Svipdag,' said he, 'come from the Tribe of Bergelmir to treat for your hand on behalf of my First, Útgarda-Loki. He has heard of your beauty, High One, and your wisdom, and seeks to bind our nations together.'

"'I have never heard of this tribe in the north,' Menglöd replied, 'nor do I wish to bind myself to it. Leave, and I may let you live.'

"'Wait!' Útgarda-Loki said, praying the Norns would be kind. 'I would fight for your hand, or I will carry your name back to my First as the name of a coward.'

"Menglöd said, 'I will fight to keep my honor, and I will decorate my hall with your entrails.' And he drew his knives and leapt down to cross steel with his guest.

"It was a battle of legend. They were perfectly matched, and the stories they told are told still today.

"When finally Menglöd slipped and fell before Útgarda-Loki's blade, he fell not with anger or grief, but with joy, for at last he had found the perfect partner to his dance. 'Tell me who you are!' he begged. 'For I have found my other half, and would not be parted from him.'

"'I am Útgarda-Loki, First Scion of the Tribe of Bergelmir,' he replied. 'I seek your hand in marriage on my own behalf.'

"Menglöd accepted his suit, and they wed before the waves of Gastropnir. From their union came a son, whom they called Ymir, and when he had grown Ymir united all of Jötunheim under one banner, and his line continued as the ruling house down through the ages to the glory of his Realm.

"And that," Loki said, bringing his hands to center and bowing, "ends the tale."

Thor blinked at him. "You said all that, just by dancing."

Loki shrugged. "I said about half of that. The other half would have been said by my sparring partner. I paraphrased."

"Right. How do I start? Like this?" Thor mimicked the Call to Arms.

"Ah..." Loki watched, stunned, as Thor recited almost a third of the steps without mistake. He faltered at Gróa's recitation, and fell back to a neutral stance. He looked to Loki.

"How was that?"

Loki closed his gaping mouth and cleared his throat. "That was well done," he said. "Although, that is not how we train new fighters."

Thor grinned. "I didn't imagine it would be. Even us uncultured Æsir start from the beginning rather than trust a new recruit with a fresh blade."

Loki couldn't stifle his answering grin, and hope spread through his chest. Perhaps frith wasn't so impossible as it seemed. He moved to stand beside Thor and sank into the opening stance. "This is the first position we learn. We call it Horse Stance..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Smjörte_ is a word I mashed up from Old Norse and Icelandic, meaning (hopefully) butter tea. It's based off a drink common in the Himalayas, where it's drunk for all the reasons Loki lists.
> 
> The story Loki tells is a twisted-around version of the Svipdagsmál, where instead of being an assumed name, Svipdagr is the actual main character. (I also headcanon that Loki is named after the Jötunn folk hero Útgarda-Loki.)
> 
> Now I'm not saying the Jötnar's fighting style is Kung-Fu, because I headcanon it to look more like Capoeira, which is what Tom Hiddleston learned for Thor 1; but the way the forms tell stories? That I'm totally yanking.


	12. Chapter 12

They spent a month in the mountain fastness of Loki's refuge. Loki taught Thor the war-dances of his people, and the love of butter tea; Thor taught Loki proper Asgardian cooking, harvesting what herbs could be found and introducing them to him by taste and smell. At night they told stories, old and new, true and mythical, and in the morning messenger-birds would stand waiting for them, lined up along the wind wall beyond the door.

Thor's correspondence was primarily with his father and mother. Both were greatly invested in Thor's education as Asgard's next leader, and often sent lengthy orations of the doings in the Allfather's Assembly.

He was more surprised to learn, however, that Sif and Fandral also kept Thor abreast of court gossip, and that what they saw fit to send their friend was not frivolous, as Loki had assumed, but key to Thor maintaining the populace's favor. Thor, untutored and ignorant in the ways of the eight other Realms, was exquisitely aware of the politics of his own. Loki found his husband rising in his esteem.

Less shocking, perhaps, was Thor's involvement in Asgard's skaldic tradition. Loki had seen his love of poetry; it stood to reason Thor would support it in all its native forms. The day a resplendent gyrfalcon came to their stoop bearing a message crystal coded in crisp _ljóðaháttr_ rhyme, proclaiming the opening performance of a song-cycle Thor had commissioned detailing the adventures of Sigurd, was the day Loki decided to set aside his assumptions and take Thor as he encountered him.

It was a well-timed resolution, for not two days later Thor came to him saying, "You asked me how many of your people I have killed. It grieves me to say I cannot count them."

The remainder of that day was not easy between them. Loki needed to be away from the Sorrow-Bringer before his hands ended up around his neck. He went In Between to the highest of the three peaks that loomed over their tiny homestead, and reveled in the adrenaline rushing through his veins upon alighting on his perch. The icy bite of alpine cold settled into his bones and the thin air made his blood race. He gazed over the rolling foothills that sank down to the patchworked plains and the fjord-etched coastline, and the distant, vague clouds of mist that rose along the edge of the world, and screamed his anger into the wind.

He returned to the cottage late that night to find the fire banked, and a pot of stew warm on the hearth. The corner where Thor had laid his bedroll was empty. Loki ate the stew and drank many bowls of tea waiting for Thor to return. He did not, that night, and in the morning Loki found waiting for him a Vanic black-winged kite bearing a message from Freyja.

"Your absence has made the populace more curious," she said. "They ask me daily where I find my outfits and jewelry, and I say to them, 'Jötunheim yields more than just savages and whores.' If you want to make your move, Loki, the time is now."

Thor returned not long after Loki had sent the bird on its way, stamping mud and snow off his boots in their practice field. _Frith,_ Loki reminded himself. _Would you have done any less, had you been a fit warrior for Jötunheim?_

"There is tea, and still some stew," he said to Thor, and the somber, beaten lines in his husband's face eased.

They sparred that day in the manner of the Æsir, and Loki found himself thinking, as he artlessly pounded his frustration out on Thor's defense, that perhaps simplicity had its advantages. Evening came, and once more they sat at the table, bowls of tea at hand.

"It is time for me to return," Loki said. "I have business, and it needs attending to."

Thor set down his bowl. "If this has anything to do with what I said yesterday--"

Loki shook his head. "No. This is unrelated."

"It's to do with this scheme you're planning with Lady Freyja and the Smiths' Guild, then."

"Yes."

Thor raised his head, to meet his gaze squarely. "And if I don't wish to return so soon?"

Loki looked away. "You need not come with me. This hut won't vanish when I leave."

Thor's eyes were dark, shadowed by the firelight. "That is not--" He sighed. "There is still business I need to attend here. With us. Please, just two more weeks."

Loki sighed and drained his bowl. He rose and left for his bedroll, leaving Thor sitting alone at the table.

***

Thor woke him the next day in the pre-dawn light, the curve of his face and the golden fall of his hair little more than shadow in the darkness. "Pack for ten days," he said, before moving over to stoke the fire for morning tea.

Loki pushed back his blankets, staring after Thor in puzzlement, but did as he asked, piling his spare kilts back into his knapsack. He drank the thick tea Thor gave him, then followed him out the door.

Thor wasn't wearing his armor. That was the first thing Loki noticed once they stepped outside. Nor was he wearing his customary leathers. Instead, he wore a simple belted tunic under his cape, and woolen trousers tucked into boots at the knee. He bore a pack like Loki's. Mjölnir he left in the cottage.

Dawn had not yet come to Asgard, but the hope of morning hovered beyond the edge of the eastern coast. Thor stood for a moment, watching early hues color the sky above the ridgeline, but then he looked to Loki, and reassured he followed, set upward toward the saddle between the rising peaks.

It was hard going. There was no path this high up the mountain, and the slope was steep. More than once they were forced to grab hold of the turf with their hands as they kicked their feet into the sod and snow for footholds, and Loki lost himself in the rhythm of their climb. Snow slicked their path, until all around them was ice and cold. Thor's hands grew red as the day wore on.

Midday found them upon the saddle, looking down over the fjordlands. Loki broke the silence between them. "Where are we going?"

Thor pointed south, down into the hills and glens that marked the Asgardian highlands. "There is good hunting, there. I would show you something of my homeland, as you have showed me something of yours." Gusts of frigid air blew past them. Loki could see caps of snow cresting the hills below. In the far distance, barely visible over the jagged land below, Loki saw the smudged line of storm clouds mustering over Asgard's central plains.

"Well, then," he said. "We'd best get going."

Thor's answering grin was small, but an ember of something warm rose in his gaze. Loki hefted his pack and led the way down the slope to the distant treeline. Thor followed, and Loki felt his happiness unfurl around them.

"It's not a promise," he called back, wanting to stifle Thor's good mood. "Think of it more like a trial. Asgard is on trial."

"I'm sure it will acquit itself admirably," came the insufferable reply.

They walked until sundown, until they were well inside the trees. With each step the air grew colder, until Thor's cheeks and nose turned red from the cold.

"Did you bring nothing to keep yourself warm?" Loki asked, disgusted, as he chafed Thor's chilled hands to warm them. "You are like a child, I swear by the Tree."

Thor rolled his eyes. "If you would but let me go, I have mittens in my pack. And a hat." He removed the specified items, shoved them on, and spread his arms wide. "Does mother approve?"

"Quite. Move."

Thor moved, smiling as he took the lead.

They broke camp not long after, and Loki consented to starting the fire with his _seiðr_. It crackled green for a bare moment before settling to orange red. Thor pulled off his mittens and squatted, warming his hands before the flames.

"You have the tent, not me."

Thor snorted. "First you want me to warm my hands, then you take umbrage when I do."

"Warm them after we put up shelter, yes? All you have to do is the heavy lifting. I can do what needs delicacy."

Thor scowled, but it smacked of pretense, and Loki caught him smiling when he fumbled tying the flies. He threw the cords down in annoyance. "It's not like we need anything like this on Jötunheim. What are you--no! Stop laughing. I order you to stop laughing!"

Thor stopped his protests with a kiss. Loki sucked in a surprised breath; Thor smelled of cold, but also of sweat; and beneath both, of petrichor and ozone. He found himself cradling Thor's face between his hands. Thor broke away first, his gaze uncertain and searching, but Loki pulled him back.

"I didn't give you permission to stop," he said.

They did no more than kiss. Loki trailed his tongue along the seam of Thor's lips, wondering at the rasp of his beard; but when he opened his mouth in reply, Loki pulled away.

"The fire," he said, unsure how to continue.

"The fire will keep," Thor replied, his blue eyes dark in the twilight. "If you want it to."

Loki was silent for a time, coming to a decision. "A marriage bed of pine boughs is good for the tales," he said. "Let it stay in the tales."

Thor nodded and began to gather deadfall around the camp. Loki caught him licking his lips as he went.

***

The next days were largely quiet. The previous month had been filled to the brim with words; stories, explanations, introductions, careful dancing around sensitive topics. The ten days in the hinterlands of Asgard were wordless. They hunted and explored, and learned the communicative power of a single glance. Whole days would pass in utter silence, broken only by the crunching snow and the wind through the pines.

Thor was clearly well-known by the people here, and his status as prince was ignored beyond the essential courtesies. Their third day Thor led them to a tiny village, recognizable as such only by the meeting hall and the clump of longhouses around it. Their arrival was unheralded and largely unremarked. There was no market that day, so Thor spoke with a housewife about purchasing a small portion of her winter stores; she considered, no doubt tallying her surplus, before agreeing. Loki found himself surprised. A Jötunn subject would not have hesitated, for the Second Scion would not have asked.

Her home was a longhouse near the edge of the town green, a humble, sturdy structure of logs and packed sod. The raised hearth in the front room was welcoming, and Loki found himself warming his pale hands before it. He despised this shivering form for no other reason than because it tolerated the cold poorly. The housewife disappeared through a side door, and Loki examined the textiles on the floor and on the benches that lined the walls. They were plain, but exquisitely woven. He had an idea from where the wealth of this house arose.

The woman returned, carrying a largish bundle. She handed it to Thor. "There's dried venison, cheese, and apples in there, as well as bread, butter, and a jar of preserves."

Thor inclined his head, and gave her a small pouch of coin in return. "My thanks, Frítha," he said. He turned to Loki. "Have you met my consort, Loki? Loki, this is Goodwife Frítha, Head Weaver and wife to the Headman of this village."

Loki bowed. "I thank you for your hospitality."

She turned grey eyes to Loki's own. "I'd heard you'd been married. To a frost giant." She eyed him up and down. "A shape-changer, then?"

Loki nodded, his eyebrow rising. She was behaving as though meeting her prince's foreign bride was an everyday occurrence.

Frítha grunted. "Looks sturdy enough. Was there aught else you needed, Highness?"

"No, thank you."

"That's a relief. You eat enough to empty the pantry in a month."

Loki's gaze flicked to Thor. The woman was beyond insolent, but Thor's easy smile stayed his tongue. This was Thor's business.

"I pay you enough to fill it twice over," he replied. "No use complaining over a boon."

"So sure of yourself. Have a seat. It's midday, and Ragnar will be home soon."

No sooner had she spoken than the door burst open, and a massive, black-headed man filled the doorway. Loki tensed, wary, but Thor rose with a shout and pounded the man's back in a bone-crunching embrace. Frítha said nothing and set out bowls and spoons.

After Ragnar followed two more men, boys, really, beardless and smoothed-faced in youth. His sons, Loki supposed. They embraced their mother, greeted the Prince of Asgard, and took the proffered bowls of stew.

The meal was largely silent, punctuated only by the scrape of spoon against bowl, and the gentle rip of tearing bread. Loki watched carefully, and inspected all he could of the longhouse. It was... different, than a Hrímthurs's cottage. It was well-named, for one; Loki estimated it to be near one hundred paces in length on the outside, though inside he could see naught but the first third. Benches lined the walls, strewn with furs and wool-stuffed cushions, and in the center rose the hearth: easily the dearest possession they owned. It stood in two parts in the middle of the room, beaten of copper and steel and lined with stone, and a plethora of kitchen implements hung from hooks around the massive hood, all organized to a fault. It was a dramatic difference to the rich palaces of Asgard's Shining City. It was cluttered, close, and above all homely--and in that respect, at least, it reminded him of the hearths on the edge of Útgard's land.

Ragnar finished his bowl first, and set his craggy face into serious lines. "I know it is not customary for you to cull so late in the season, but with your wedding, the progress, and this year's quick freeze--" he cut a glance to Loki, "--there's a pack edging closer than we'd like to the outlying farms."

Thor tapped his spoon against the edge of his bowl, frowning. "They don't usually raid this early."

Ragnar spread his hands. "If it were any other time I'd handle it myself, but it's smack in the middle of the slaughter, and I've not the time to. Everyone's updating their records and haggling for spring looking-rights, and I'm so busy with it all I'm meeting myself coming and going."

Thor nodded. Loki saw nothing of the haughty prince he knew, replaced entirely by the young lord responsible for his people's welfare. "I heard rumors and thought I might investigate. I'll look into it for you. It's just the one pack?"

"Aye, just the one. The rest are canny enough to keep to themselves, and the woods are richer than usual this year. But this pack, it's led by a grizzled old hound with more scars than Knut and a vicious mind between his ears. If I didn't know better I'd say he had a particular loathing for us farmers."

"Hmm. Where were they last spotted? And how many in the pack?"

Ragnar scratched his beard. "Oh, I'd say five at the most, though the alpha is mean enough for two. He tried to carry off Short Sigmend's youngest last raid, and only his eldest cracking him over the head with a brand made him reconsider." His face grew grim. "That boy'll wear those scars the rest of his life."

"Sigmend's farm is southwest of here, yes?"

"Aye, by Henbone Lake."

Thor shoveled the last bite of stew in his mouth, then stood. Loki followed, placing his bowl on the lip of the hearth, and watched as his husband and the village headman clapped forearms. "I'll see to the pack, Ragnar," Thor said. "They won't bother you again."

"My thanks, Highness."

They left the steading on a south-westerly course, slipping through the white-dressed trees in silence. Soon the noises of the village faded in the distance, and even the lowing of cattle disappeared. They walked the rest of the day, and feasted on Fríthaa's good cooking that evening. Their campsite was silent; Thor said nothing, and Loki found nothing to say. They kept to their separate bedrolls, and Loki counted the seams in the tent wall until sleep claimed him.

They walked in this manner for three days, passing with each step further into Asgard's untamed interior. The trees rose tall and dark, swaying and groaning in the cold winter wind, and the snow lay thick upon the earth. Loki cast off his Æsir form to walk as a Jötunn, and he breathed deep the chill of the air.

The third day dawned with the scat of wolves in the trees about their camp, and Loki sharpened his daggers over breakfast. Thor, likewise, sharpened his blade, and Loki saw that it was the Jötunn dagger he had given him at their wedding. Thor's smile was wry. The steel sang against his whetstone, and Loki tamped back the effervescent feeling in his chest at the sound of it.

They walked all that day, weapons ready in their sheaths, and listened for any sign of their quarry. The woods were quiet, for the wind had settled in the night and not risen with the sun; the trees creaked and pine needles rustled, but the loudest sound of all was the crunch of their steps through the snow. Loki sniffed the air, and froze.

"Thor," he called forward, pitching his voice low enough to carry only to his husband's ears. "They are about us."

Thor turned, his blue gaze sharp. "You are sure?"

"I can smell them." He pointed. "Their numbers are greatest in that direction, but I do believe they have us surrounded."

"A trap, then."

"Or they're simply curious. I doubt many of our kind cross their territory."

Thor acknowledged these words with a nod, but drew his blade anyway; Loki, as in all things, followed.

They walked, feigning obliviousness, until the musky, animal scent of the wolves was clear and sharp.

"Do you suppose--"

Loki never learned what Thor would have asked, for the wolves chose that moment to attack. They sprang from over the berm on their right, and through the trees on their left, and their snarls echoed over the empty snow. Loki met the battle with bared teeth of his own, sending sheets of ice down over his hands to fasten them to his blades.

"They are clever!" Thor bellowed, whaling back and forth with the flat of his blade. Loki said nothing, consumed by the adrenaline. He did not share Thor's love of combat, he had found, though he made sure he excelled at it.

Three wolves fell before Loki marked the alpha, a ragged old male with scars on his muzzle and rheum in his eyes. Of a sudden their choice of prey made sense, for in a pack without family bonds an alpha's position was determined by their ability to find prey, and no prey was easier than that provided by men. At least in the short term.

The skirmish was short-lived, and by the end they were both scratched and gasping for breath, and the wolves were, to a one, bleeding crimson on the snow. Loki knelt beside his first kill and looked into her glassy eyes. Behind him, he heard Thor deliver mercy to one mortally wounded.

"It is a shame, to kill such noble creatures," Thor said, wiping his blade clean with a handful of snow.

"It had to be done." Loki stroked the dead wolf's fur. It was coarse and soft, and altogether pleasing to the touch. She was still warm.

Thor grunted, sheathing his blade. "The farmers will sleep easier at night, and we can pray the other packs stay well enough away from men."

Loki rose and shook the blood off his blade with a twist of _seiðr_. "Yes," he said. "Of that we can but hope."

With that, they began to skin the wolves, for their hides would serve as reparation to the farmers they had injured. They lined up the corpses and washed and rolled the skins, and buckled them to their packs for the return journey. Overhead the ravens cawed from the branches, awaiting their due.

***

It was raining. The first of the spring storms had finally come to Asgard, loosing their gentle, heavy burden over the paved streets, turning the lingering snow to slush. Loki stood on the balcony outside Thor's rooms and scented the air.

"I would not have thought you to like the rain," Thor said behind him.

Loki smiled. "This is not the rain of Jötunheim," he replied. "There, the rains follow the warming sun, and bode of floods and famine. Here, they still savor with the bite of winter. Can you not smell it? Can you not feel the bank of cold air rolling up from the south? The mountains will hold it for a time, but it will come."

He heard the rustle as Thor shifted his weight. "I feel the turmoil of the storm more than cold that follows."

"Mmm." Loki raised the _hrímskjöld_ , and filled out a slender seed of ice until it blossomed into a small figurine. Its features were obscure; it was more an impression than a true likeness, but its flowing lines suggested a reclining jötunn, tucked against the side of a cow. Loki stepped forward, and placed the figure on the edge of the balcony. Immediately the rain blurred the ice, melting it slowly back into water. He bowed to his primal Ancestors and the progenitors of Jötunheim. He turned to Thor.

His husband leaned against the doorway, cloak draped over his tunic and his hands lax at his side. The rain had eased something in him as well, though Loki suspected it was for a different reason. As if in answer, a distant flash flickered in the air, and an easy, lingering rumble followed.

"That is a ritual of your people?" Thor asked.

"We honor our ancestors as you do. Yours brought warfare; mine brought ice. All Hrímthursar honor the beginning of winter."

"My ancestors did not just bring warfare."

Loki rolled his shoulders, loosening knots he hadn't noticed. "Many worlds would disagree."

He heard the sly laughter in Thor's voice. "As the Mist Wraiths of Niflheim might object to your claim to cold?"

"Just so."

Thor stepped out on the balcony, bringing with him a pocket of dry air. He stood beside Loki at the balustrade, gazing out over the gray, blurry cityscape. Loki's skin prickled at the loss of the soothing water. "Aren't you the Midgardians' rain god, or some such?" he asked. "Why the aversion to getting wet?"

Thor huffed a laugh. "More their god of thunder," he said, self-consciously. "And I suppose of battle, as well. One of the affectations of my youth was a war chariot, drawn by two Asgardian rams. By the Tree, they stank, but they were impressive, and effective in a fight. The whole contraption was noisier than a dökkálf's forge uprooted and sent rolling down a mountain. The Midgardians said it was akin to thunder."

He shrugged. "You want their god of rain, look to Frey. He, ah. Was very popular, with the Midgardian women. He had that exotic look. Most thought he was their Buddha-god at first, but once a crop of dark, slant-eyed children sprang up like summer wheat they saddled him with rain, and the fertility of the field. They were remarkably accommodating, like that."

Loki smiled, and tapped his _seiðr_ to unweave the (simple, artless) spell Thor was using to keep them dry. The hum of magic vanished from his senses, and rain soaked Thor's hair flat to his head. He gave Loki an unamused look.

Loki looked back, unrepentant. "Frey propositioned me, you know. He said you were welcome to join."

Thor tried to keep his face stern, and he made a valiant effort, but his expression dissolved into laughter. "That sounds exactly like Frey," he said.

Loki watched him closely. "You do not object to the idea?"

Thor sobered, a thoughtful expression coming over his face. "Not on principle, though I have little interest in Frey as a bedmate."

Loki did not miss the way his eyes flicked to him, then away. He smirked to himself. He looked up at the sky, then to the steadily dampening Thor. "We really should get you out of the cold," he said.

Thor snorted. "This? This is nothing. I have endured worse on Niflheim."

Thrown, Loki stared at him. "You have been to the Primordial Realm?"

Thor shrugged. "We all do, when we come of age. We bring a stone to Niflheim, whereupon we throw it into the waters of Hvergelmir. In ages past we would take a stone from Múspelheim's shores, but we do not share the peace of earlier times."

Loki found his eyes narrowing. "That is surprisingly bloodless. I would have expected more killing from an Asgardian rite of passage."

Thor turned to look at Loki. Something in his expression seemed almost hurt. "Not all of us are warriors, Loki. You would tell a young girl just blooded to slay an enemy of Asgard to prove her womanhood?"

Inexplicably shamed, Loki looked away. "No, I would not ask that. We... ah. We make a sacrifice to our Foremothers. Usually a bird, but anything the child can catch will suffice. It must be caught by the child, that is the stipulation. Our world is harsh; children must prove they can survive on their own before they can become adults." He hesitated, then said, "I have always wanted to go to Niflheim. What is it like?"

Thor waved a hand to the rain about them. "Damp. Cold. I have only seen one part; Hvergelmir is in the middle of the southern wetlands, upon a shallow rise, and is the source for the twelve rivers that drown the land around it. I had to procure the services of a boatman to take me to the rise." His smile was wry. "The Thokadraugar have built a sturdy economy thereabouts, catering to Asgard's pilgrim youth. For many, it is their first journey from home. For some, it is their last."

"Is it so dangerous an undertaking?"

"What? Oh, of course not. The Allfather has an understanding with the local parliament. The Wraiths have been stable far longer than even the Ljósálfar; they care for Asgard's children as well as their own. No, I meant not many Æsir are inclined to leave home. I am sorry to say that, as cosmopolitan as Asgard is, her native people rarely wish to learn aught beyond their own borders."

Loki may have imagined seeing the flash of self-recrimination in Thor's eyes. It was hard to say, what with the water dripping into his own.

"So, ah." Thor looked away, and gestured once more to the rain. "This isn't very cold at all."

Loki shook his head in exasperation and incredulity, though he would deny it was done fondly, as well. "That is not what I meant, Thor," he said. "What I meant was, we really should get you out of those wet clothes."

Thor froze, his eyes locking with Loki's for confirmation. Loki gave him a slow, lingering glance, from his feet back up to his face in reply. Thor cleared his throat and looked away, before glancing back almost shyly. He shifted his weight. "You are sure?"

"I would not otherwise ask." He took Thor's hand (broad, long-fingered) and drew him back into his chambers. Thor followed, his brow creased with worry but his eyes darkening. Loki had to place his hands on his waist himself.

"Come now, would you say you do not wish it?"

"I wish it greatly," Thor said, his voice rough. "I fear myself."

Loki trailed his fingers up Thor's arms. "I am not weak or fragile, Thor," he said. "I will not let you harm me."

Thor let out a shaky breath, and Loki raised his hands to cup his head, and drag him down to a kiss. His lips blazed heat against his own, rain-chilled skin.

It was slow, sensuous. Loki tasted Thor's lips, scented the dampened musk rising off him, savored the slight groan that escaped him as he flicked his tongue against Thor's. He reached for the clasp that held his cloak fastened.

"Father will be glad it was at least done during the first year," Thor said half to himself as his cloak fell away.

Loki snorted. "If I cared any less for the Allfather's concerns."

"He is my father, you know," Thor said between kisses, trailing his mouth down Loki's neck. Loki's head fell back against the onslaught, and a shiver prickled across his skin.

"And as such has no place in this room."

"What would you have us speak of?"

Loki hissed as Thor found a sensitive spot, and heat flared down his spine to pool low in his belly. "I hear the weather is lovely on Múspelheim this time of year. Very... hot."

Thor chuckled, and rasped his beard against Loki's sensitized neck. Loki shuddered, fumbling for the lacings of Thor's tunic.

"Why do you wear so many clothes?" he demanded, when he had stripped it aside to see yet another tunic underneath, though this was simpler in both fabric and design.

Thor shrugged. "We take chill easier. And custom and habit demand we do not bare out bodies so freely to others' sight."

"That's silly," Loki said. "Surely in high summer you wish you could wear less, and society be damned." He sucked a bruise into Thor's neck, worrying that pale, peach-soft flesh until the blood rose to the surface. Thor's hips jerked forward reflexively.

"Ah," he grunted. "Y-yes, I have wished that, especially in the training arena." His hands slipped up Loki's back, and there was something covetous in his touch. Loki smirked, and dragged Thor's undertunic over his head.

Thor's hair, when he resurfaced, was dreadfully awry. Loki smirked at him; Thor shrugged, and Loki's grin vanished at the magnificent play of muscle placed before him. The water had slicked down the downy fluff that spread over Thor's chest, and droplets of water slipped from his wet hair down his shoulders. Loki found himself torn between licking the water off his stunning pectorals and pressing himself against them.

Thor broke the dilemma by touching the battle caul that Loki had taken to wearing. "May I?" he asked.

"There is a trick to it," Loki said, bowing his head to find the hidden clasp. "It would be dreadful to slip on past horns, so--" he pulled just so, "--it comes apart." He drew the two halves away, careful of said horns. He showed them to Thor, who looked ready to inspect them for the next half hour, if not for more pressing concerns. He laid them aside, and raised a hand to Loki's hair.

"It's like raw silk," he said, threading his fingers through Loki's mane. Loki let his eyes closed, and he hummed his pleasure. He tensed at the gentle touch against the base of one of his horns, but Thor did nothing but lightly brush its ridges before slipping back to cup Loki's head for another kiss.

This was less gentle. Thor nipped Loki's lip; Loki retaliated by taking Thor's hips and grinding his own against them. He felt his cock slipping out, tenting his kilt. Thor's hissing exhalation, hot against his skin, was sweet. Loki broke the kiss and gave into temptation and followed the trails of water down Thor's chest with his tongue.

"We should go to the bed," Thor stuttered as Loki's mouth found one of his nipples. It hardened immediately under his tongue. "Cold," Thor hissed, even as he cupped Loki's head in his hand.

Loki straightened, and returned his lips to Thor's as he plucked at the laces of Thor's pants. They came apart easily; harder was skinning them down Thor's legs.

Thor broke away, laughing, and tugged them back in place before stooping to pull off his boots. Then he pulled off the offending pants, leaving only his smalls to cover his dignity.

Thor would become a Jötunn kilt very well, indeed. Loki's cock slipped out a little further at the thought. He saw a matching hardness tent out Thor's smalls, and he smiled. "To bed, you say?"

Thor shrugged elaborately. "It seems the thing to do."

They came together cautiously, almost shyly. Loki drew Thor over to the bed and laid him out among the sheets; Thor pulled himself up to rest on the pillows. Loki followed, throwing a leg over Thor's hips and settling himself over his husband's stomach.

"Well, you certainly have a cock," Thor said, looking down to where Loki's kilt had been pushed aside by his own eager flesh.

"That I do," Loki replied, and raised his hands as Thor slipped his fingers to the buckle and drew the kilt away, baring his erection to the hot air of the room. Beyond, Loki was dimly aware of the rain coming down harder through the open doors.

"But you don't have balls," was Thor's stunned, quiet response.

Loki sighed. He had a great deal of work ahead of him, with Thor. "No. Though as you can see, I have something a great deal more useful." He pulled aside Thor's smalls, and with a clever twist of his hips, seated himself on Thor's cock. Thor let out a strangled grunt.

Loki threw his head back, trembling. It burned like a brand inside him. "Oh, yes," he said huskily. "Just imagine the sex we'll have when we're angry."

Thor huffed a breathless laugh. "Planning ahead?"

"It's difficult to avoid," Loki replied, twisting his hips. Both of them hissed in pleasure. "Touch me, you blight-ridden moron."

In a blink Thor had seized Loki's waist and dragged him down, twisting and throwing him back amidst the pillows and covering his slenderer frame with his own, heated bulk. Loki laughed, delighted, and in reply Thor proceeded to pound him into the bed.

Gone were the hesitant touches of before, the missed steps of new lovers. They had found a rhythm, and they took to it with a will that set the bed-frame shaking. Loki dug his nails into Thor's back, and arched to press his aching cock against his belly; Thor bit down on Loki's neck, just grazing a sensitive cluster of nerves. Shivers ran down Loki's spine, and his voice was ragged in his ears.

The humidity in the air soaked into Loki's skin. The moisture of the rain, the musky sweat that slicked Thor's body; he felt he was drowning in sensation, in this strange, wet, warm world, his new home, his duty. A particularly vigorous thrust sent stars exploding behind his eyes, and he cried out to the Ancestors, beyond glad he had come to Asgard for that thrust alone. The fit passed quickly.

It was brutal and fast and so, so sweet--but it was not enough. Loki wormed a hand down between their bodies, the slick ease of his hand sliding through Thor's sweat tightening the already painful ache in his groin, and wrapped his fingers around his cock. The other he wrapped tight around Thor, dragging their bodies closer together.

Thor was staring down at him, his blue eyes burning from narrowed slits, one hand by Loki's head and the other wrapped tight around his hips, holding him steady as he pounded into him. Loki wrapped his legs high about Thor's sides, stripping his cock with slickened fingers and gritted his teeth as the wave crested and he spilled his seed in the close space between them.

"Ah, it's cold," Thor gasped, his rhythm stuttering and eyes wide, and he followed, his release filling Loki with liquid heat that sent him arching through his aftershocks.

They fell apart, panting. Loki stared at the ceiling, his frantic mind blessedly silenced in post-coital lassitude. A trail of Thor's seed slipped down the crease in his thigh, hot as the Asgardian sun against his skin, and he shivered.

Thor grunted, an exhausted, half-stunned sound, and Loki flopped his head over to look at him. He lay on his side, a deep flush painting his chest pink, and his eyes were hazy and dark. "That was more pleasant than I thought it would be," he said. 

Loki was surprised to agree. Thor's technique was not the most nuanced, but what it lacked in subtlety it more than made up for in sheer power. Fucking him had been like the rush of battle, or the juddering shock of touching a livewire. If he weren't spent he would consider another round.

He wasn't sure if that pleased him.

He did not reply, but instead sat up against his body's languorous protests and looked for his kilt. He grabbed it and rolled out from the bed.

Behind him, Thor pushed himself up onto his elbow. "What is this?" he asked, frowning. "Why do you leave our bed? I know you met your pleasure, I felt it between us."

"It was a decent fuck," Loki replied, as flippantly as his unstable voice could allow. "I'm sure the Allfather will be glad it happened within the first year." He spared a glance to Thor, and wished he hadn't; his husband's brow had creased in anger, but the hurt was plain enough to see in his eyes. He rolled himself out of the bed and stormed around to where Loki stood.

"It was more than a simple fuck," he said, seizing Loki's shoulders in his crushing grip. "I saw your eyes as you reached your peak, and after, and before, when you began this tryst. Your voice shakes even now, Loki, and your eyes are uncertain. Do not lie to me, I will not have it."

"What do you want me to say?" Loki said, slapping Thor's hands from his arms. "It was good! It was crushingly good, and now I wonder if there's something wrong with me, that I should find pleasure in being fucked by an ás! I have to worry about how your father's narrow-minded, Æsir-dominated Assembly will see me, whether they will see me as a man shamed and scorn me, or as a woman, and thus not merit their regard! I have to worry about _children_ , Thor. That is the chiefest reason two such as we share a bed--to beget children and weave frith." Loki stepped back. "I did not think, when I drew you to me. Now thinking is all I can do." He stepped back, and fled the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is evidence of the Vikings having contact with Buddhist cultures, exemplified by [this statue](http://irisharchaeology.ie/2013/12/the-helgo-treasure-a-viking-age-buddha/) found in a Viking site in Sweden.


	13. Chapter 13

Loki found himself walking through Hríthin. It fit: it was the furthest from Gladsheim he could come on Asgard, though he walk a thousand miles in the effort. There was no hint of Thor's prosperity and privilege here, just the shadowing bulk of the palace.

He walked, wrinkling his nose at the reek of water stagnating in the gutters. Cheers rose from the door of a nearby tavern. _The cabaret is only two blocks west,_ he thought to himself. It had been near a two months since Loki had last come to see his band of dissidents, and he winced, thinking of the meeting he had missed. He didn't imagine their welcome would be glad, but he longed for the familiar disdain toward the Æsir. Tonight, he was eager to remind himself of his own loathing, for in the other hand he watched it crumble away. He spun himself into Lopt's face and quickened his step.

The glittering and powerful of Asgard avoided the slum during the daylight hours, when it was seemly; but when the sun went down they flocked to it in droves. Whorehouses and nightclubs abounded; gold flowed freely. More than one yacht passed him by as he walked to Gerda's cabaret.

The doors to the club stood open, a line of hopefuls waiting outside for entrance. Loki stood across the street for a moment, taking the sight in. He had always come through the back entry, before. It was less inconspicuous, but Gerda had never objected; this was the first time he had seen her establishment from the street.

 _The Winter-King's Hall_ , he read over the doorway. It rather explained the décor. He stepped across the cobbles.

The men standing guard saw Loki--or rather, saw Lopt--and nodded him through, past the lines. The interior was dark, muffled by heavy drapes and carpet; an unseen hand drew aside a curtain and the nightclub spread out before him like a kingdom to its liege.

He stood for a moment, watching. On the stage, a trio of scantily clad performers sang of temptation and blood; on the floor, the patrons sipped their expensive drinks and pretended they were bored. _We come to Hríthin **all** the time,_ Loki thought for them. _Honestly, it's quite dull. We get a thrill out of slumming it, but we can't let on, now can we?_

The maître d' approached. He was a thin, elegant man, impeccably dressed, with a careful smile pasted over his nerves. Lopt made him uneasy, Loki knew; he wondered how much of his mistress's business the man knew.

"Mistress Gerda awaits you in her office," he said.

Loki masked his surprise. "She is expecting me?"

The man shook his head. "No. She left a request should you come to visit us again."

Loki raised a brow. "Thank you," he said, dismissing him and walking to the rear of the bar, where the staff door was hidden behind yet another velvet curtain.

The difference between the lavish outer salon and the utilitarian, unvarnished backstage had never been so pronounced as it was now. Loki couldn't shake the sensation that he was walking to the throne room at Útgard, summoned by his mother to answer for some infraction or other.

 _You don't have a guilty conscience, do you?_ Loki asked himself sardonically.

Gerda's office was small and rigidly organized. File cabinets lined one wall, and her desk was wedged against the wall opposite. But what threw Loki--more so than the presences of Völund, Fanje and Menja, the latter two of which rose from their chairs at his entrance--was that Frey son of Njörd was there as well, sat perched on the edge of Gerda's desk and smiling charmingly down at her. She was glaring at him the way a gardener might at slugs that had found her cabbages: with anger, disgust, and resignation.

"Your pardon if I'm interrupting," Loki said. "Next time I'll knock."

Gerda turned from Frey and stood. "Lopt. I'm glad you came." She seemed to make a concentrated effort to ignore the man hovering over her shoulder.

"I don't believe we have been introduced," Frey said, stepping up. "My name is Frey. My father owns the Nóatún Shipping Company. Perhaps you've heard of me?" His eyes ran down Loki's form. Loki stifled the urge to smirk.

Instead, he widened his eyes and stiffened as though surprised. "Apologies, my lord, I did not recognize you," he said. "I am Lopt."

Frey waved his concerns away. "It is nothing. Are you part of Gerda's..." he glanced to the others: the twins serenely countenanced, and Völund's ever-present glower, "ah, group?"

"I have business with Gerda, if that's what you mean," Loki said, affecting an uncertain tone. He watched Frey's eyes clear, and a knowing glint take over.

"Then I had best go, that you might conduct your business," he said. "Farewell, Gerda, I hope we can chat further."

"Farewell, Frey," she said, her voice as chilled as any Jötunn winter. Loki moved to let him pass, and the same woody perfume that Freyja wore filled his nostrils. He turned and raised a brow to Gerda.

"Is he member of the coalition?"

She huffed a sigh. "He is more interested in me than my politics," she said. "It suits me to maintain his interest, for the Twins of Vanaheim have no great love for the Allfather, and an army besides."

"Ah," Loki said. "You had best be wary making deals with the sons of Njörd," he said, shedding Lopt's skin. "They're liable to take your firstborn if you're not cautious about the terms."

"You share a lot in common with them, then," Völund growled.

There was a moment of silence as Loki processed this. Fanje and Menja, quiet thus far, seemed content to remain so: their eyes glittered as they watched. Gerda looked worried.

"I beg your pardon?" Loki asked.

Völund heaved himself to his feet, his withered legs bowing before he caught himself with his crutches. He made his way toward Loki, fire in his eye. "You heard me, boy," he spat. "How do you differ from Frey? Neither of you commit to a damn thing. Do we need another poncey noble running around, promising the moon and leaving us hanging?" He addressed this last to the women.

Gerda spoke hesitantly. "There has been some question of your dedication, Loki."

"She means we suspect you're going to double-cross us," Völund said. "And my faith to the contrary is running dry."

Loki felt himself bristling. "You may have noticed, but my husband has recently come home--"

"Aye, we noticed! We noticed two months ago, when that bloody big parade came through town! We noticed when you went off with him to frolic in the woods, and left us high and dry!"

"Am I a child, to be thus scolded?" Loki demanded.

"If not that, then a liar," Völund said. "Three months you have led us on, with nary an assurance of your loyalty. I say enough."

"That is not true," Loki said. "Ask your smiths what they think of the jötunn bitch, Master Smith. They'll say he spends like a woman, and surely spreads like one, too! Do you doubt my loyalty to your cause when the current regime fosters a climate such as this?"

Völund's voice rose to match Loki's. "Yes, I do! So you are spoken ill of in the markets. What a shame! And meanwhile, you have a very sweet nest in the palace, my lord. Is it to your taste?"

"Quite. My servant tells me there has been no poison at all in the food." Loki's tone was venomous. "Am I of value only for the oaths I swear?"

"No, Loki, that's not so at all--" Gerda tried to smooth their rising tempers, but Völund cut her off.

"Your oaths are as binding as a daisy chain, and as carelessly given," Völund said. "You're no longer knocking knees with the Twins, but the point remains: if you bed them instead of your husband, why should I trust your word at all?"

"You and I have a greater degree of shared purpose that I and my husband, Master Smith," Loki said, willing it to be true. "Forgive me if I feel it necessary to make bonds where I can. Ridiculous as it may seem to you, I am interested in the outcome of your endeavor."

"Tale-teller and lie-spinner! What need have we of an ally who only sucks us dry? Who disappears on a puff of breath when the path roughens?" Völund sneered. "I see no 'shared purpose.'"

Loki drew his blade in a clipped arc and pointed it at Völund. Fanje and Menja, unflappable through this tirade, glanced to each other, eyes wide; Gerda gasped.

"Look at this blade," Loki hissed. "Tell me what a master sees."

Völund glared at him, and Loki tasted his suspicion curdling the air. Loki didn't move an inch. Perhaps half a minute passed before Völund's curiosity bested him, and he glanced at the blade. His eyes flicked back to Loki's.

"The metal is good," he said. "But the working is unremarkable."

"It's plain for a prince, too, isn't it."

Völund gave a terse nod.

Loki resheathed the blade. "Jötunheim is rich in resources, Master Smith, even without his moon. But he is poor in skill. All our greatest have withered in the spring of our decline. I assure you, I do not serve my purposes alone when I say it would behoove you to support me."

"You support Jötunheim," Völund sneered. "You support yourself. It is a happy accident that it supports those whose help you need."

"Why else do politicians speak to each other!" Loki snapped. "Why treat with foreign nations at all? I assure you, Álfheim cares not a whit whether Jötunn children live another day, but they get gold for their grain, and that lets their own children eat. I am no different.

"You want to know my position, Völund son of Álfvisi? I could care less about your revolution. I am a prince, you idiot, and as you so kindly pointed out my welfare is upheld by the dynasty you seek to cut short. However, I hate Odin--and in that, we are allied.

"I will not swear fealty to your cause. I am not a revolutionary. I cannot afford to be, do you understand? I am balancing the frith of two nations on the back of my good behavior. I will support you in your business, and I expect you to return the favor, because I am sure that if your contracts with Jötunheim survive a coup then my family will be quick to tighten them. But do _not_ \--" Loki pointed an accusatory finger in Völund's face, "--press me to offer what I cannot, and scorn me for it."

Völund stood uncowed. "I do not take well to those who double-cross me," he said. "Know this, frost giant: the last man who did so, I killed his sons. I will do the same to you if you stab me in the back."

"Understood. And will you still support me in the Assembly?"

Völund's reply seemed to grind out of him against the greatest resistance. "Yes."

"Then we know where we stand," Loki said. "Now if you don't mind I'm going to leave. Do I have your permission for that, or should I put it before the committee?" He glanced around at the witnesses, all of whom were staring at the spectacle with varying degrees of shock, before glancing back at Völund and sweeping out the door.

The noise of the cabaret swelled, and he could see the strobing stage lights at the end of the hall. He turned away and made for the alley entrance.

It was past time to push forward with his own plans.

***

Loki rolled the brandy over his tongue. In truth, it was beyond his ability to appreciate; he had little knowledge of Asgardian liquors, let alone their wines; it merely tasted of alcohol, with a sweet aftertaste. He swallowed it and nodded in approval. “It is a fine brew,” he said.

Smith Emboda bowed his head. “I am glad to hear it, High One. Drink, and tell me what you wish for me to do.”

“It is less a commission, and more a proposition,” Loki said slowly. They sat in Emboda’s private showroom, where he received his most esteemed clients; and as the second most powerful smith in Asgard, he catered to the finest of the Realm. Warm woods paneled the walls, and the only decorations upon them were chosen pieces from the smith’s collection, strategically lit. All were exquisite.

Emboda sat back in his chair. “I thought that might be the case,” he said slowly. “It is no secret you have been moving up through the Guild, courting members. Those with favorable trade contacts, especially; you have been making promises, I hear.”

“Fewer promises, more hints,” Loki said. “You, however, I am willing to offer a promise.”

“Wait,” Emboda said, holding up a hand. “Let me see if I can shape the nature of your curiosity on my own. You are interested in the Smiths’ Guild. You are a known associate of Freyja Njördsdóttir. Freyja has further been seen wearing pieces of Jötunn jewelry, to the notice of the Houses. Moreover, the gossip I hear from my fellow Smiths indicates a willingness to compromise over Jötunheim’s--theoretical--luxury imports. Is this correct?”

Loki nodded. “It is.”

Embuda folded his hands in his lap. “Why should we, the smiths of the Smiths’ Guild of Asgard, tolerate Jötunn metalwork in our market?”

“Because Jötunheim will be hungry in kind,” Loki said. “Asgard has the best armorers, this is known. Our own armor smithies are poor in talent, compared to what can be found here; they will buy anything you offer.”

“We are not all armorers,” Embuda said. “I myself have several journeyman apprentices concentrating on jewelry-making. For the sake of their futures, why should we tolerate Jötunn jewelry?”

Loki shrugged delicately. “Is it not the custom to send journeymen to other masters, for supplemental training? If Asgard and Jötunheim were to develop a reciprocal relationship between your Guild and our Hearth, would not it benefit both our Realms?”

“Ahhh,” Embuda said, smiling so his eyes crinkled. “You mean to reclaim access to your lost moon, and aren’t picky how to do it.”

“Your words,” Loki said, inspecting his nails. “We can both agree, however, that such a relationship, in the long-term, would benefit all involved.”

“I can see the benefits, yes,” Embuda said. “I would even provide apprentices to Jötunn masters. I have little ability to support it, however. _I_ am not the leader of my Guild.”

“I have already spoken to Völund,” Loki replied. “We have come to an arrangement.

“Then why come to me?”

“Because,” Loki said, pressing his point, “I would prefer to ensure the support of all the Smiths, not merely the most powerful. A unified front is far more puissant than one divided.” He smiled. “And, I need a fresh set of armor.”

***

Loki breathed deeply upon leaving Smith Embuda’s armory. He allowed himself a small, victorious smile; the hardest work was now done. He could concentrate on the others at his leisure. He sent a request for a visit as soon as he got home, and waited impatiently for a reply.

The guilds were one thing--notoriously insular, incredibly difficult to sway, and violently protective of their own. But the Orchard-Mistress of Asgard, and the farmers that followed her, were rather less hostile.

"It seems to me, Lady Idunn, that this new act is needlessly restrictive. Many of the crops sold in the farmer's markets are from planets outside of Asgard's purview; their homeworlds' interests are being denied free voice. What's to stop them from seeking out less exclusionary markets?"

They were walking in the City Orchards, between a row of pear trees long aged past fruitfulness. The steady weight of their years grounded the fraught, fleeting discussion carried on beneath their boughs.

The Orchard-Mistress hummed in thought. "That is alarmist."

"And yet."

Idunn pulled down a branch. She drew a small knife, and slivered away the bark; she hummed again and let the branch go. "What is it you come here to propose? I can't imagine Jötunheim cares about the food supply of Asgard."

"No, but he cares about being heard in the Assembly, and your constituents care about setting a precedent for non-Asgardian voices being heard despite the Protection of Speech Act."

Idunn stopped to examine him. Her iron-gray hair and weather-beaten face were belied by the youthful sprightliness of her bearing. "What is it you come here to propose, Lord Loki?"

Loki straightened his spine. "I mean to put forth a motion in the Assembly to establish an ambassador from Jötunheim. This ambassador will be an exception to the Protection of Speech Act in that he will have the right to speak. Ideally the right to vote as well--though as it will be an ambassadorial position it is unlikely I can leverage such a concession. I'm asking all the greatest and strongest of Asgard to back me in this."

Idunn turned back to the tree, this time scooping up a soil sample into a small jar. She labeled it with a wax pencil. "I am hardly among the greatest and strongest."

Loki just manages to restrain a snort. "You may not be the loudest, my lady, but Asgard will notice if your disfavor, or the disfavor of the farmers you court, is ever expressed. That is strong enough."

She turned back to him, vial in hand, and Loki thought perhaps she might have smiled were he anyone else. "And who else do you seek alliance with?"

"Some others whose bite the Allfather will feel if they are displeased."

She tilted her head. "The Smiths, then. They are greatly displeased of late. And you have been seen often in the presence of Lady Freyja, so perhaps the Vanic contingent, as well."

Loki swallowed. "That is so."

The Orchard-Mistress hummed. "I will talk to Gjálp. She represents the City Water-Works, and manages the aqueducts throughout Asgard. Many of the employees are from Niflheim's moon. They recently declared their independence, and worry that this act will come to deny them, as well. Gjálp looks after her constituents."

Loki bowed, breathless. This was a greater windfall than he could have hoped for. "I thank you, my lady. What favor might I give in return?"

Her gaze was distant when she rose. "When you get your ambassador, Prince, I want your help in cultivating Jötunn plants here on Asgard." She speared him with a sharp gaze. "I mean money. Jötunn seeds are costly."

Loki's eyes narrowed. "You mean for us to subsidize foreign crops?"

Idunn huffed impatiently. "I mean grants to support agronomists. Surely a desert-dweller such as yourself can appreciate the significance of research on plants native to your soils? If the research proves fruitful, I will of course publish it. And Jötunheim has free access to whatever publications Asgard puts out."

Loki's smile was slow and wide. "My lady, I think we have a deal."

Idunn hummed disinterestedly. Loki bowed and left her presence.

The next piece of his puzzle clicked into place. He was almost ready. He ignored Thor’s increasingly puzzled, annoyed glances over the dinner table and pressed forward.

***

"Am I wearing it correctly?" Freyja tugged at the jerkin, smoothing down invisible wrinkles.

"You look perfect," Loki said. Indeed, she did; she wore the long, divided kilt and jerkin of the southern polar tribes, in rich maroon silk; it became her exquisitely. It had come from Loki's maternity wardrobe.

"I feel bare."

Loki adjusted the lay of the pleats. "The hallmark of jötunn finery is its simplicity," he said. "If it's a comfort to you, when I wear Asgardian clothes I feel stifled."

Freyja's smile was wry. "I suppose you don't need warmth from the cold," she said, raising her jewel-clad arms.

"Not especially, no. And the jewelry is important--you see my clan lines?" He gestured to his face. "This is unique to the northern continent. The southern tribes don't practice scarification the way we do. The armbands tell affiliation."

Freyja looked down at her arms. "What do mine say?"

"Nothing." Loki's smile was equally wry. "You are not Jötunn."

The gong sounded; Loki started, a bolt of adrenaline fizzling through his veins. Freyja's warm, small hand took hold of his, pulling him away from his nervous thoughts. "All will be well," she said. "This is not the first time I have spoken before the Assembly, nor the first time the Allfather has been challenged. Have faith, and trust in the Ancients."

By the door, the attendant gave him an apologetic look; Loki nodded. "I must go." He gave her the Asgardian forearm clasp of warriors, then left the antechamber.

The Assembly Hall was exceedingly simple in design: the lower floor was for the audience chamber and various public sitting rooms; the upper level was for the observation balconies and the private offices of the delegates. Loki made his way up one of the grand double staircases to the upper tier, smoothing down his cloak as he did.

He had armed himself with the regalia of a Jötunn warrior in preparation for this day: his kilt was the bloody red of war, and he wore the light, polished armor that accompanied it, fresh-forged from Smith Embuda. His battle caul, too, he wore; and over all, his navy cape, embroidered with needles and lightning bolts. He made his way to his seat in silence.

Below, the noise of the assembly-members settled into silence as the session began.

The gong rang again; Njörd, Trade-Master of Vanaheim, stood. "We all know of the Protection of Speech Act. We have all heard the debates, I am sure we can recite the opposition and defense in our sleep." Muted chuckles met his words. "I would hear a new voice speak. A voice not of our number, but a fresh voice. I invite Freyja Njördsdóttir to speak, at her request."

Polite grumbles and knowing smiles peppered the reply. "Nepotism is alive and well, I see," muttered a voice behind Loki, several rows back. Loki fought to keep his expression neutral. Odin's voice rang out over the hum.

"We recognize Freyja Njördsdóttir. Let your 'fresh voice' be heard."

Loki heard the main doors creak open below him, and the ringing steps of Freyja's boots against the marble floor. She made her way to the speaker's podium quickly, but without semblance of rushing; her posture was proud and at ease. She was resplendent, for the Jötunn robes she wore suited her down to the ground.

She waited until full silence settled before she began to speak.

"I will not presume to lecture you about the good or evil of the Protection of Speech Act. As my father has said, too much air has been spent on it as it is. Instead, Members of the Assembly, I have come before you today to represent the voiceless. I speak for those whose voices have been ripped away by the Protection of Speech Act. I come on behalf of Jötunheim."

A roar of sound rose from this proclamation. Loki sat on the upper balcony, utterly still and unmoved, a picture of serenity amidst the wave of discontent below. He fought the urge to swallow.

Freyja stood firm before the protests. "Delegates. You ask what has Jötunheim has done for us but kill our sons. I say to you: what have we done, but slay the sons of Jötunheim? The war is nine hundred years done, gentlemen, but for petty skirmishes. It is laid to rest along with the dead that fought it. Now we find ourselves in a new position, for Asgard's heir is wedded to our former enemy.

"Former enemy--but was it always so? Have we been so long in our hatred that we forgot the Blue Queen? Audumla was not of Asgard, delegates. She came from the Heart of Ice, as our own prince's consort does. It has been millennia since the Blue Queen dictated policy on Asgard. Millennia since her children took their first steps. Millennia in which her shade, standing with the Ancients, has had to witness her sons and kin fight each other for petty, greedy reasons. She stands in Valhalla, and she weeps for us."

Loki inhaled deeply. By the Foremothers, she was masterful.

"We stand at a crossroads. One step will carry us on the path we have already begun: one of isolation and strife, where kin fights kin and brotherhood is shoved aside out of fear and hate. The other step is far harder--but potentially far richer.

"Jötunheim is a trove of untapped knowledge. Their native plants grow in bitter cold, with little water to sustain them. Our own crops, do they not wither from the scarcest touch of frost? Do they not swallow up our waterways from their thirst? Already agronomists are looking to Jötunheim for answers, for with this new peace we may never again be forced to watch our children starve when harsh winters blight our crops.

"Nor is this hope a one-way street. Jötunheim is eager for new markets; they are recovering from the harshest economic depression they have experienced in living memory. They are eager for the craftsmen we can provide, and the goods we can sell, for it will be generations before their own artisans can approach our level.

"I am, of course, disposed toward seeing a good trade. I am a simple merchant's daughter, after all." A round of chuckles greeted these words; Freyja smiled wryly, then let it fade. "I see opportunity wherever I look, Assemblymembers, and I look upon the neglect Asgard has heaped upon Jötunheim, and what do I see? I see a missed opportunity."

Her back straightened, and her gaze grew steely. Loki could not look away from her. She commanded attention. "The future ruler of Asgard is wedded, however informal the bond may be, to a prince of Jötunheim. Like it or not, our wyrd is tied with theirs. Jötunheim is too great a trading partner, too powerful a potential ally, to neglect their voices in this Assembly. It is irresponsible and foolish not to hear their words, and on so slender a justification as clearing the way for Asgardian interests.

"Delegates, I put the following before you: Jötunn interests are _our_ interests, as those of Vanaheim, Álfheim, and Niðavellir are Asgardian interests. Deny the voices of those who would harm us; deny the voices of those whose wyrd is separate from ours. But by the Tree, do not deny Jötunheim a voice.

"I propose this Assembly does what is essential for the continuance of Asgard, and permit Loki, Twelfth Scion of Jötunheim and wedded concubine of Prince Thor, to act as ambassador for Jötunheim. I do not ask for much, Assemblymembers. In fact, I ask for little. There is no realm among those present who would settle for a single seat in this Hall, and yet I, and yet Loki, asks for no more than that. He asks for a chance to be heard, gentlemen. He asks for a chance to weave frith.

"Peace, Delegates. Vote for peace. Vote for Asgard, vote for Jötunheim, but above all, vote for peace."

There was a brief moment of silence before the Assembly erupted into chaos. It seemed half the Assemblymembers sat in shock, while the other half shot from their seats as though stung by hornets, and proceeded to shout each other down. Loki sat immobile. He was exposed; he had chosen to sit in the front row of the viewing gallery, directly opposite the Allfather's seat; he was in plain view, and the enraged delegates were not shy.

Loki ignored them. He sat tall and proud as his mother had taught him, and he met the Allfather's glare without flinching.

_See, Old Man? I am not without my resources._

Odin broke first. He turned his gaze back to the seething floor, and pounded his fist upon his desk. "Silence!"

One by one the Assemblymembers settled, glancing between each other, Freyja, the Allfather, and Loki in turn. Odin turned to Freyja, standing cool and unruffled upon the speaker's podium. "You may step down, Daughter of Njörd," he said. "You have called for a vote; it is time for us to discuss your petition."

She bowed, and strode from the room. She caught Loki's eye before she disappeared beneath the edge of the gallery. He could not read her expression.

Njörd stood first. "It goes without saying that I support the petition," he said. "I did not become Trade-Master without cause, and I agree: there is too much opportunity in Jötunheim not to permit them full voice."

"Absolutely not! Have we forgotten the barbarity of the frost giants?" Ægir, the First Lord of the Sea, heaved himself to his feet. "Have we so soon forgotten the Siege of Trømso? My son--"

"Many of us lost sons, Lord Ægir," Fulla said, rising to her feet. A matronly woman of an age with Frigga, and indeed, her closest companion, Fulla was head of the Weavers' Guild. "Did not Freyja say that both sides had lost sons? We are no more innocent of spilled blood than they." She faced the Allfather. "The Weavers' Guild supports a Jötunn ambassador." She sat back down, to murmured disbelief.

Loki fought not to smile. It was well-known that the Weavers' Guild was the Allmother's voice in the Assembly. If the Weavers were with Loki, then the Bölverkr's own wife was with him. Odin's face was a picture of studied impassivity.

Idunn rose, then. "Freyja spoke truly. My agronomists are eager to study Jötunheim's plants, and Loki indicated a willingness to provide research visas for a small party. Of course, that can only happen if he is an official representative of Jötunheim, rather than a figurehead. I support a Jötunn ambassador." She gave a nod toward Loki before retaking her seat.

Gjálp sprang up like an overeager puppy. A small, unlovely woman, she boasted an encyclopedic knowledge of Asgard's watersheds and aquifers that had left Loki dizzy. "Yes! Every decade our population grows, and the demand on our farmers increases. Asgard only has so much water, Assemblymembers; our island in the Void is remarkable, but it is not infinite. We must explore every option for the furtherance of its lifespan."

"This is absurd!" A dwarf Loki did not recognize leapt to his feet. "Already Jötunn ores undercut Dökkálfar prices. Now you seek to give them further influence? Peace for Asgard, hah! Peace for Niðavellir! When the miners lose their jobs because Asgard no longer buys their ore, what then? Are we to laud the mending of fences?"

"Shut your hole, Brokk," Völund, head of the Smiths' Guild, said. Loki's attention sharpened. Tension spiked in the room; the Smiths' Guild could sway entire debates with a sign of approval as small as a nod.

Völund knocked his knuckles against the lectern. "Njörd's daughter said they would buy as much as sell, you fool. Niðavellir need not fear for its mines."

"Tcha!" Brokk waved a dismissive hand. "You are firmly in the Einherjar's pocket, Völund. Cast your 'nay' vote, and let others speak."

"I support a Jötunn ambassador," Völund said into dead silence. "The Smiths' Guild is ever in favor of new trade--or did you forget that it is not the Einherjar alone that determine our interests?" He watched Brokk with a calm expression, but Loki saw the glitter of satisfaction in his gaze.

The Assembly Hall erupted once more, and this time, when Odin met Loki's gaze, the fury plain in his face, Loki let himself smirk.

_The game is mine._

***

_Identity: Consort Concubine Loki Laufeyjarson, confirmed. Commence message replay._

_Komdu heil_ , Loki. I received the crystal detailing your work in the Assembly. Your success is admirable, but inconveniently timed--the Eldjötnar are pressing to cut off trade with Jötunheim, and all of my negotiators and ambassadors are on Álfheim to resolve the dispute.

However. This is an opportunity that must not be neglected. I have the perfect candidate in mind; I will send him as soon as he is given a thorough grounding in Jötunn political interests and diplomacy. Until then, you will simply have to hold the seat yourself.

I have to say, I did not expect you to work this quickly. I am pleasantly surprised.

By the blood of Ymir,

Laufey Nálsson, First Scion of Jötunheim

_Do you wish to send a reply?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Völundr, or Weyland, is a legendary smith. He appears in the _Völundarkviða_ , where he is captured by a greedy king, crippled, and forced to produce treasures. In vengeance, Völundr slays the king's sons, makes treasures from their eyes, teeth, and skulls, and rapes the king's daughter. Then he forges wings and escapes from his imprisonment. Völund does not suffer humiliation gladly.
> 
> A close reading of the _Skírnismál_ , which tells the courtship of Gerðr, has some pretty coercive elements--Skírnir basically forces Gerðr to accept Freyr's suit or risk losing her good reputation. As such, I chose in this story to interpret Frey and Gerda's relationship as coercive rather than romantic.
> 
> Gjálp, in the _Skáldskaparmál_ , is noted for attempting to drown Thor in a river of her own urine/menstrual blood. It seemed fitting to place her in charge of Asgard's waterworks.
> 
> ETA: Sigynthefaithful reminded me to include the story of Fanje and Menja. They appear in the Prose Edda and the _Gróttasöngr_ in the Poetic Edda. They were two maids captured by a king who forced them to grind gold and happiness on a giant millstone. Understandably displeased with this, they milled up an army from the ocean and slew the king. Of course, this new army wanted gold and happiness, too--so they captured Fanje and Menja and dragged them beneath the sea. They ground so fast that the spinning of their millstone caused a massive whirlpool and sank all the ships that came near. Indeed, the word "maelstrom" comes from the combination of the Old Norse words for "mill" and "stream."


	14. Chapter 14

It was two days after the triumph in the Assembly Hall, and Loki was at the breakfast table in Cloud's End when Thor came to call on him. Halldóra led him in with an apologetic glance.

"The Crown-Prince, my lord," she said.

"Thank you, Halldóra." Loki brushed away the newsfeed hovering in the air before him. "Thor. What can I do for you?"

His husband was dressed in his lightest armor, with a cloak flung carelessly over the top; his expression was sober. "May I sit?"

Loki waved toward the chair.

"Thank you." Thor sat, and placed his hands on the table. He stared at them for a moment before he spoke. "I heard of your success in the Assembly."

 _I noticed your absence,_ Loki thought. "I imagine your father had a great deal to say about it."

Thor shrugged. "He made no mention of it in my hearing."

Loki restrained a frown. That... was not good to hear. He narrowed his eyes at Thor. Morning light poured in through the window behind him, illuminating Thor's pale face and golden hair, but he could make out nothing but Thor's damnable openness. Silence settled thickly about them; Thor picked at a hangnail as Loki watched.

"What did _you_ think of it?" Loki asked.

Thor was silent for a time. "It was necessary," he said. "Right or wrong."

Loki raised a brow. "What makes you say that?"

"Freyja was right," Thor said, shifting in his seat. "Jötunheim is not the enemy it was, and we cannot ignore it further." He glanced to Loki. "My father agreed."

Loki barked a laugh. "Of course he did. Enough to let the motion pass in the face of mutiny."

Thor's gaze snapped blue as concentrated flame. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Loki's nostrils flared. "Exactly how it sounded, Prince. Your father was not pleased by the development."

Thor narrowed his eyes. "Ancients know I am blinded when it comes to my father, but my friends are not. Sif and Fandral were present at the Assembly; they tell me he was angered, but that he permitted it. My father is not so unreasonable as to ignore the will of the people."

Loki stared at him, dumbfounded. _You are too innocent by far for politics_ , he thought. How had so straightforward a creature come from the loins of Odin Borsson? Or from Frigga, for that matter. It defied belief.

In the hall, the clock ticked. It was deafening in the silence. Loki spoke first. "Did you come only to congratulate me? Or was there something more?"

Thor glanced at him. "Not that alone, no. Rather, I came to ask you how you went about doing it. I have attempted more than once to sway the Assembly, but never have I gotten far in the attempt. I thought perhaps I might ask your advice."

"And you came to ask me at--" Loki made a show of checking the time, "--the fourth bell past dawn?"

"We are married. Is it not our right to bother each other at unseemly hours?"

Loki gave him a flat look. "I might not have been decent."

"Plainly you are. We spent a month together, Loki. I know full-well that you have been up for two turns at least."

Loki conceded the point. He sat back in his chair. "So you want lessons in politicking. Why not ask your father? Or your mother?"

Thor's smile was wry. "My parents are busy. My father expects me to figure it out for myself, and my mother's advice is rarely applicable."

"Why not? The Weavers' Guild is much like the Smiths' Guild when it comes to wheeling and dealing."

Thor flushed and looked down. "I did not care for the subterfuge of it."

Loki rolled his eyes. "Then I'm afraid, Thor, that you're not going to get very far at all. Idealism is a noble standard, and preferable in theory; but as you enter politics you will come to find it as rare as gold in an open field."

Thor nodded. "It is easier, I think, not to ask my family. Or my friends."

"Because they know how highly you hold your honor."

Thor said nothing, but the answer was plain on his face.

Loki sighed again. "As your concubine I vowed to uphold you. I am obliged to keep that vow." He cast a sharp glance to Thor. "But know that I will not be an easy teacher."

He nodded slowly. "I think you will find I am not an easy student."

"Very well. I will tell you what I did to attain my goal."

And he did. Carefully, and without giving away sensitive information, Loki detailed his plots and the process of introductions and favors that had brought them to fruition. He laid it down in plain, unvarnished language, and he did not shy away from the ambiguity of his actions, for he suspected Thor needed to hear just how knotted his subjects' future plots would be. Three turns passed in this manner, and through it all Thor listened in silence.

Loki paused and took a sip of the water Halldóra had set out for them. Thor was staring into the middle distance, his eyes unfocused. A slight frown creased his brow. Operating on a hunch, Loki asked, "Did anything interesting happen in the news, this morning?"

Thor shook his head. "I don't read the news."

Loki prayed to the Foremothers for strength. "Why not?"

Thor focused on him. "I trust my friends to keep me sufficiently informed."

"And if they forget something? Or are injured? Or--take Hogun. He has a family on Vanaheim, does he not? He cannot always be expected to provide news on Asgard, surely."

Thor blinked. "Well--when he is on Vanaheim he tells me the Vanic news."

"Is he highly placed in the Diet, then?"

"Not especially, no. But he is a formidable warrior, and the son of the territorial chief."

"Then the news he tells you is necessarily limited to the news of his father's demesne." 

"I suppose that's so..."

"But what about Sif. She often campaigns with the Einherjar, yes? And she crews every now and again for the security teams hired by merchant caravans."

"Yes, she does."

"I imagine you ask her a great deal about Asgard's military and mercantile climate."

Thor laughed. "Of course not!"

Loki raised a brow, feigning surprise. "Whyever not?"

"Well... because she is usually by my side. There is no need to ask her."

"And Fandral and Volstagg, they too are often at your side?"

"Yes, Loki. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Because you need to understand that if your friends are always by your side, then the advice they can give is limited. Conversely, if they are not in a position to tell you valuable information, they are not good as intelligence agents." He paused, thinking. "Let me ask you a question. When you are on a campaign, say to roust trolls from a farmer's land, would you trust the report of the farmer of a croft ten leagues away?"

Thor snorted. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because it is not his land. He doesn't know all the crannies that bandits might hide in."

"Who would you ask?"

"Why, the farmer who's land I'm trying to protect."

"Why?"

"Because he _does_ know the land."

"Exactly. You rely on the person who knows the land best. I see Fandral at the Assembly most often; do his reports to you include date, name, topic, and resolution?"

"Well, no, but--"

"Why not?"

Thor was glaring now. "Because he can hardly be expected to know everyone in the Assembly."

"Why not? Freyja does."

"That's grand for Freyja!" Thor snapped. "What does that have to do with my friends?"

Loki gave him a long, measuring glance. "Let me tell you how I learn what goes on around me. Every morning I read the headlines. I don't always read the articles, but I always know the headlines, and perhaps the first paragraphs of the article. The press is hardly unbiased, but news is news.

"Then I consult my correspondence. I send a great many crystals each day, from many sources. From Jötunheim, my news comes from the First Scion's household, whether from my mother directly or from one of his advisors. I must often solicit this advice; they are rarely inclined to code another crystal if they don't have to. I compose upwards of sixteen new messages a day; I can hardly blame them.

"That is Jötunheim. My news from Vanaheim comes chiefly from Freyja, whose father holds great sway in both Asgard's Assembly and Vanaheim's Diet. My news from Álfheim, while not so highly-placed as the previous three, comes from several merchant-princes of high degree.

"More to the point," Loki said, leaning forward in his chair, "I attend the Assemblies as often as I can. While having highly-placed spies is invaluable, I can no more assure their trustworthiness or accuracy than I can the unbiased reporting of the press. So, I cross my lines of communication. This is how I knew when to act; I chose my allies wisely, and not solely on the basis of friendship." He sat back. "Do you see the difference in our approaches, Thor?"

Thor was outright scowling. "You want me to abandon my friends in favor of spies?"

Loki rolled his eyes. "No, you dolt. They are valuable to you in other ways than as advisors. But as political assets? Their gifts are few. What I am telling you, is that you need to network, and not rely solely on a small group of individuals to keep you informed."

Thor's blue gaze was troubled. "But--"

"Come," Loki said, rising and cutting him off. "Let us walk in the garden."

Thor half-rose in surprise, his mouth open as though to speak, but Loki strode from the room before he could. He was fond of his breakfast nook; it was brightly lit and airy, and yet cozy at the same time. Thor, however, had a massive presence, and he filled it so completely with just himself that the space grew stifling. Loki threw open the veranda doors and strode out onto the patio.

It had taken Loki many days to feel comfortable with the profusion of plants that surrounded his home. Jötunheim was hardly barren, but what plants that did grow in the cold were short in stature. Here, in Asgard's warm, moist environs, the slightest effort from even the most lackluster gardener produced a maze of green--and his gardener was no incompetent.

Now, he blessed the overgrown thicket. He tucked himself away in the shadowed walks as often as he could, hidden from the house and from prying eyes and ears by a curtain of leaves.

The snows had long since receded, and the greenery, just leafing, filled the garden with the verdure of spring. More than once Loki found himself marveling at the furious green of a miniature oak, or the tiny, unfurling leaves of the ferns around the garden shrine.

It was toward this last that he walked, leading Thor like a mother hen leading her chick. He chose a winding, circuitous route and let him catch up.

"Politics is best exemplified not by the position you hold, but by the people you know and can influence," Loki said. "You may in time sit upon Hlídskjalf, but Thor, you will not be King of Asgard until you know your subjects. Your power will be determined not by their loyalty--and I promise you, the number of truly loyal subjects is smaller than you realize--but by your knowledge of their wants and needs, and by your ability to sway their attentions based on that knowledge."

They walked, and the crunch of their boots against the gravel path was loud in the muffled peace. The air was crisp with the lingering moisture of the morning rain; Loki breathed it deep.

Thor spoke. "How do I begin?" His voice was deep and resigned. Loki glanced to him out of the corner of his eye; he was looking off into the distance, toward the leaf-skirted roof of the shrine.

Loki inclined his head. "What goal do you wish to attain?"

Thor looked to him. "Must there be a goal in mind?"

"It helps. Otherwise, you have no need to speak to those you would rather not. Think of it as a motivating factor." Thor kept silent, and Loki felt compelled to add, "It need not be a large goal, merely one to cut your teeth."

"Tell me of Jötunheim," Thor said suddenly. "About the Council. What names should I know?"

Loki ducked his head to hide his surprise. He let himself savor a small smile. "Well, chiefly there is Laufey. He is First Scion--the highest-ranking Scion of Ymir in Jötunheim. After him are his sons--the Second Scion is always the heir apparent, the second son the Third Scion, and so forth as far down as necessary. The current Second Scion is Helblindi, my elder brother. Third Scion, until recently, was myself, but--"

"But you married me," Thor put in.

"Yes," Loki said. "Now Býleist is Third Scion, and I have fallen to the level of Twelfth." He saw the distress on Thor's face, and snorted. "Be at ease. There is a tradition that the First Scion may only sit in Útgard if he has no direct ties to the ruling seat of another realm. As first concubine to the future King of Asgard, I am removed from the line, short of a catastrophe taking out the First through the Eleventh Scions."

"Has that ever happened?"

Loki pursed his lips. "It is said the reign of Bergelmir the Magnificent began when a spring flood took out all of the Scionage down to the Hundred Sixty-Third--Bergelmir himself. As highest-ranking Scion left, the kingship fell to him."

Thor hummed. "What other names should I know?"

"Well." Loki marshaled his thoughts. "The new Fourth Scion is a withered hound by the name of Thjazi. If you ever treat with him, do not believe a word he says. We Jötnar are not so keen to keep to the spirit of our word as you Æsir profess to be, but Thjazi is unusual even for us. However, he can be a useful tool if managed properly: he has the deepest knowledge of Council politics I have ever witnessed."

"Does he have any children?"

Loki's lips twisted. "One. A son by the name of Skadi. He is Fourteenth Scion, and short as I am."

Thor started. "Then you are not the only one?"

"Of course not. It is a recessive trait, and common enough among the nomads of my father's line. It is generally nurtured among the Scionage, as well; runts may not be fine warriors, but we have unique political use."

"You can marry smaller races," Thor realized.

"Indeed. I knew from a very young age that my future would take me from Jötunheim."

Thor looked down at his boots. "That is... I am sorry. That is a hard fate."

Loki shrugged, brushing his hand through a stand of waist-high ferns. "It is what it is. My wyrd was set well before I was born."

Thor nodded. He swallowed. "Who else should I know?"

Loki obliged him by naming the entirety of his mother's Council, from Hræsvelg, the Corpse-Swallower of the North, to mild Vafthrúdnir, who was nevertheless the fiercest and wisest of Laufey's advisors.

Thor squinted down the path. "I do not think I will remember them all," he said.

Loki waved a hand. "Of course not. But I will tell you them again, and as many times after as necessary for you to remember. Freyja is doing the same for me for the members of the Assembly; some I know, for they speak in my mother's Council, as well, but many I don't."

Thor looked at him curiously. "You ask her, but not me?"

Loki restrained himself from laughing in his face. "Do not take this the wrong way, Thor, but you do not attend the Assemblies unless pressed. Did you know that Seeland has found alliance with the Willowent Consortium? Do you know who their leaders are?"

Thor flushed, but he did not look away. "I did not, and I do. I take it the former is more important to you?"

Loki plucked a leaf from a trailing branch. "Yes. Knowing the lay of the land is essential; knowing names can come later."

"What! Why then did you give me that endless list of names when I asked after your mother's Council?"

 _Because you asked for names._ "Because, Thor, I already know most of the names. I have a grounding you do not, for you have no names whatsoever. For you, we must start from the ground up." He snagged other leaves, from maples, from birch, linden and oak, and began to weave their stems together.

Thor looked away. "I truly am ignorant, aren't I."

Loki shrugged. "You are sheltered. Your parents are statesmen; that does not mean they know how to share their knowledge."

"And yours do?" Thor's tone was tart.

"Laufey is a vicious cow," Loki said. "But he knows how to make sure a lesson hits its mark." He frowned at Thor's expression. "What? You look as though I said something foul."

Thor's face was a blotchy red and white. "You--you called the King of Jötunheim a cow," he said.

"Yes, because he is one. Is that so terrible to say?"

"Yes," Thor said. "If you value your life, do not call anyone a cow, a mare, or a bitch in Asgard. Those are insults worthy of the _hólmganga_."

Loki wrinkled his nose. "Truly?"

Thor nodded. "To be compared to an animal that bears young? It is the worst insult."

Loki stared at him in silence. "My mother bore me," Loki said. "Are you Æsir so narrow-minded as to call giving birth the greatest insult to one's pride? What of your women?"

"It is not an insult to women," Thor mumbled. "They cannot help it."

"That is..." Loki spat on the ground. "That is sickening." He turned away from Thor and marched toward the shrine.

"Loki, wait!"

Loki did not wait. He stormed into the humble stone structure and knelt before the statue of Ymir, reclining beside Audumla, the Primordial Cow. He let out a deep breath.

"Loki," Thor said, peering into the shrine. "Loki, I'm--"

"If you say you are sorry, Son of Odin, I will beat your head against the lintel," Loki said. "There is so much wrong in your culture I--" he cut himself off, ducking his chin down to his chest.

Behind him, Thor was silent. Loki sighed. "The more I find out about the Æsir, the less I like them as a people," he murmured. "You spurn an entire half of your race merely for their reproductive role, and insult each other with it like schoolchildren. You bristle at the most trivial slights to your honor. Are your men so _weak_ , that they fear your women so greatly? I say this now: your women are more pleasant to be around, and easier to trust, than any Asgardian man I have yet to meet, yourself included. It is not the women who call me the Whore of Jötunheim, after all."

"They call you that?"

Loki turned to Thor to see his face was dark with anger. Loki scoffed. "Are you going to defend my virtue? Walk the island with every man that sneers at me, to maintain your honor? Because I assure you, Thor, if you fight them it won't be _my_ honor you're preserving. And it won’t stop them saying it. They will simply say it where you can't hear."

Thor deflated like a spinefish. In that moment, he looked younger than Loki had ever seen him. Loki turned away and, with a twist of _seiðr_ , lit a stick of incense. He set it upright in the bowl of sand before the statue's feet.

The creak of Thor's leathers was the only warning he got that his husband had come up behind him. Loki kept himself loose and relaxed; he doubted Thor would harm him now, but...

"You made that same statue out of ice," Thor said. "Who is it?"

"That is Ymir, the progenitor of all the Jötnar," Loki said. "He is our First Mother, the greatest of us. That," he continued, "is Audumla, the Primordial Cow. She fed Ymir when there was naught else but ice to feed on. It was her gift that made him fruitful, that he could bear us." He looked down at the crown of leaves he had woven and crumpled in his fury, and rose on his knees to hang it over the Sacred Cow's horns.

"Audumla is my great-grandmother's name," Thor said.

"Yes. The Blue Queen was a jötunn. It is a common name among us."

"My great-grandmother was _not_ \--"

"Ask your father about her," Loki snapped. "Or if he will not answer, go to the lesser gallery on the third tier of the east wing of Gladsheim. There is a tapestry there that might sway your view. But I assure you, Audumla Vörnisdóttir was a frost giant."

Loki heard Thor shift and settle. "I will leave that aside, for now. If you revere cows, and one of your queens was named after one, why call your mother that, as though it were an insult?"

"It _is_ an insult. We may honor cows, but we also recognize their reality. They can be dim, greedy creatures, often too stupid to protect themselves from harm. We do not, however, scorn them for their ability to bear young, nor do we count it a mortal insult."

Thor was silent for a long time. Loki watched the ember crawl down the incense stick, the rich, spicy scent of the smoke wafting around them.

"I have a great deal to learn," Thor said eventually.

"Yes," Loki replied. "You do."

A woodpecker battered against a tree in the distance; wind sifted through the leaves, shaking off raindrops in a gentle patter against the pavestones. Beside him, Thor smelled of pine tar and sweat.

"I think that is sufficient for today's lesson," Loki said quietly. "If you don't mind, I would like to be left alone."

"I am sorry, Loki," Thor said, rising to his feet.

"Tell me again when you understand why."

Thor took a breath as though to speak, but seemed to think better of it. He left the shrine, his cloak flapping behind him. Loki curled himself up, wrapping his arms around his legs, and let himself feel small.

***

Loki was tucked in a cocoon of bedsheets, dozing against the airy morning light, when the servant woke him. 

"Your pardon, my Lord," she said, bowing, "but the Allfather has commanded the court entire attend him in the throne room."

Loki grudgingly opened his eyes. The woman was called Röskva, he was almost certain. She was one of Thor's. He glared at her.

She paled, but did not move. "I'm sorry, my Lord, but he was very firm. It is an emissary, new come this morning. From the Fire Giants."

Shock chased away his lassitude, and Loki sat bolt-upright. "Did you hear any of what he was to bring before the king?"

"No, my Lord, though she is waiting yet with Heimdall for the Allfather's permission."

"Good. There is time yet to dress." Loki threw his legs out of bed and stood. "Would there was time to bathe. Tcha. We shall have to make do."

Röskva proved herself an able chambermaid; she was quiet, and tolerated Loki's dithering with aplomb and discretion. He made a note to borrow her on a permanent basis from his husband. The odds of Thor noticing her absence were slim.

By the time they were done, Loki was resplendent in his courtly garb. About his waist he had wrapped a blood-red kilt, fastened with a hammered gold belt; the ceremonial armor followed: the pauldron over his sword arm, and a black cape suspended from straps that wound over his shoulders and under his armpits. Greaves, bracers, and the curved pseudo-breastplate that scooped beneath his collarbone balanced the look, and on his head he wore his battle caul, which reinforced his horns and held his hair back from his face. He wore no adornment beyond his armor.

"Will not the Fire Giants take it poorly, to see you so dressed?" Röskva asked. "Will not they see it as a threat?"

Loki shook his head. "This is how they convey respect to each other. If one dresses in full armor in their presence, they know one does not belittle their enmity. At least, that is the custom of the ruling House's clan."

"Ah," was all she said, and helped Loki fix his Jötunn blades to his belt.

Thus attired, Loki hurried through the halls to the throne room. The halls were thronged, but Loki found his way made open for him. He supposed it was a terrifying sight for the Asgardians, to see an armored Jötunn prince make his way through the palace. He thanked his good fortune, however, when he took his place by Thor's side in time to see the Eldjötunn emissary enter the hall.

Thor nodded to him, but all of Loki's attention was fixed on the Fire Giant that followed the honor guard. Less honor and more guard, Loki thought, though how they thought they would stop her should she desire to kill them he had no idea; the Eldjötnar were taller than the Hrímthursar on the whole, though slenderer. A hrímthurs was steady and obdurate, like a glacier; the Eldings were lissom as a flame.

The emissary was no different. She stood head and shoulders above the guards' spears, and her horns curled becomingly over her bare scalp. She moved with the grace of a dancer, and her hands bore the calluses of a fighter. She wore the traditional woven armor and skirt of the ruling clan, set by the previous House, Sinmara, when she had taken power. The current House, Sinmara's daughter, who was also named Sinmara, was of the same clan and had seen no reason to change tradition.

The emissary turned her head, and spotted him where he stood beside Thor. He supposed he was hard to miss, even in this land of ridiculous helmets; his wry humor dried up, however, beneath the heat of her gaze. Her eyes were white as hot metal and burned as strongly. Loki trembled beneath the anger in those eyes.

Óskópnir was not pleased with the Íshjarta's defection.

Loki swallowed. He had made his choice. His mother had made his choice.

Her white gaze flicked back to the Allfather, and she approached the stairs to the dais. The guards bid her stop; she did, and bowed when they peeled away. "Allfather."

Loki stifled a gasp. Now that the guards no longer blocked his view of her, he saw how her stomach distended. "She's gravid," he muttered.

He had not meant his words to be heard, but Thor turned, a tense, questioning look in his eye. "What did you say?"

"The emissary bears eggs," he explained at Thor's puzzled face.

Thor glanced between them; Loki recognized the expression from when he had learned Laufey was Loki's mother. "Is that not a good thing, that they trust one so vulnerable to our realm?"

Loki spoke without moving his lips. "No. It means they do not fear our power. They do not respect us, and offer insult."

Thor's gaze was inscrutable, though he said nothing more. Loki returned his attention to the proceedings.

"I come from Sinmara with her congratulations on your eldest son's marriage. She is sure it will be a memorable match."

Chills ran down Loki's spine, and he thought of the tapestry in Odin's forgotten gallery. Was it a twist of irony he heard in the emissary's voice? Did she know of the heritage of the House of Odin, or was it mere backhanded courtesy?

She continued. "Long has the Throne of the Three been close-tied to the Scions of the Járnvid; it is good to see your two nations turn back from fruitless warring."

Oh, she knew. She knew, and she was twisting in the knife as far as she could. Loki was impressed despite himself.

Odin spoke. "I am glad to receive Sinmara's goodwill. Do her congratulations include a cessation of hostilities on our borders, or does she await the hatching of an heir?"

Out of the corner of his eye Loki saw Frigga sigh in exasperation.

The emissary smiled, and Loki had choked back his own anger on smiles often enough to know how it looked. Her teeth were white against her ruby-red skin. "My Great House seeks audience with the Allfather, that together our two nations might reaffirm the treaties that uphold the peace between us."

Odin was silent for a time, considering. It seemed to Loki that the reply was an obvious one, and that the Yggr stalled merely to milk the moment. He pursed his lips and drummed his fingers against his thigh.

"We find the Queen's proposal agreeable," Odin said. "Has she named a time and place?"

"She has named Kjallur, when it has completed its orbit about the gas giant."

Thor leaned close to Loki. "That is the moon Varta, which is one of the contested territories."

"Stabbing where the wound is tenderest, I see."

"It would seem so."

Odin struck the flags with his spear. "We will meet with the Queen of Múspelheim at that time and place. As her emissary, do you require food or sustenance?"

The emissary bowed. "I thank you for your hospitality, Allfather, but I must decline. The Great House is eager for your response."

Loki saw Odin's eyes narrow, and beside him Thor grunted. "A less subtle insult."

"She is masterful," Loki replied.

Thor snorted. The escort reformed around the emissary's retreating back, and whispers broke out in her wake. Once the doors to the throne room closed, a ruckus rose fit to lift the rafters.

Loki looked to Thor. "Well. That was more than passing curious."

"I think you should tell me aught that you know of the fire giants," he replied.

Loki raised a brow. "Looking to start a war?"

Thor gazed down through the thicket of columns to the closed doors. "Mayhap. Mayhap to avert one." 

***

The afternoon sun poured unforgivingly upon Thor's shell-shocked face. He stared at the tapestry of his mismatched great-grandparents, and Loki watched from a safe distance.

"I had thought it slander," he said in a soft voice. "I paid it no mind."

Loki traced the knotwork set into the floor with his eyes. "I am sorry the news brings you heartache," he said, and for a wonder there was no sarcasm in his tone. He tried to imagine what it would be like, to learn he had Æsir blood in his veins. It would not come. Many a royal runt had been married into other houses, but always the Scion who took the throne was pure. It was a point of pride for the House of Ymir. _And how much of that was due to luck in marriage, and how much through the inability to find a spouse of a height?_ Loki wondered sardonically.

The point, however, was that he was a pure Jötunn, and Thor was not a pure Ás, who valued it so highly. For the first time in a long, long time, Loki did not know what to do.

Thor had said nothing, perhaps understandably; he stared at the tapestry with wide, unhappy eyes. Loki fought the urge to shift in impatience. He had brought Thor to the Forbidden Gallery not from a desire to shatter his husband's self-concept, but to hide from wide ears; perhaps tellingly, the gallery was excluded from the network of Gladsheim's secret passages. They needed to talk--but not about Audumla.

"What are you going to do?" Loki asked.

Thor stared at the tapestry a moment longer, before breaking away to look at Loki. His eyes were impossibly young, his shoulders hunched inward as though he had been struck. "I--my father--"

"Oh Jötunheim, we call him not Odin Allfather, but Odin Bölverkr," Loki said. "Odin Bane-Wreaker. He keeps to his word, yes. His honor is unstained. But he is needlessly cruel to his enemies. Our histories say it was Bor that began hostilities with Jötunheim, but Odin that brought them to a head. What do yours say?"

Thor's voice was soft. "That the Jötnar were liars and cheats, and untrustworthy at the negotiation table. It is said they invaded Midgard to destroy, and my father intervened."

Loki snorted. "We 'invaded' for research. The Midgardians thought we were monsters, and cried to the heavens for help."

"And we came to their aid." Thor looked away. There was another long silence.

"What will you do?" Loki asked again.

"By the Ancients, if you ask me that one more time I'll--" Thor cut himself off.

"You'll what."

Thor turned away, his shoulders hunching in on themselves. "Nothing." He took a deep breath, glanced to the tapestry, and let it out. "Tell me of the Eldjötnar," he said.

The vise about Loki's chest loosened. "They are our kin, in some fashion," he began, “much as the Bergrisar and Vindthursar are our kin. We are long removed from them, however, and we know not our respective origins. Myths tell us some fragment of the story, but then, that is myth, not hard fact."

"I have not heard those names before," Thor said.

Loki waved a hand. "Stone giants and wind giants," he said. "In the vulgar. They are less prominent than the fire and frost giants, of course. They have yet to colonize lands of their own."

Thor looked abashed. "We often call them pests."

Loki gave him a wry smile. "As do we. The Bergrisar are most numerous on our southern continent, where they pilfer our herds. And I hear the Mist Wraiths pay a rich bounty for anyone who brings in a Vindthursar wind-weilder."

"I have heard of that as well," Thor said. "Fandral had the misfortune to witness one of their conjurings on his Stone Walk. He hated thunderstorms for years after."

Loki cleared his throat. "We are getting off topic."

Thor turned away from the gallery wall, to the bank of windows over the abandoned garden. "Yes."

Loki stepped up beside him, resting a hand on the pommel of his sword. "The Eldjötnar do not value individual honor, much like the Hrímthursar," he said. "Their ruler is valued not by the strength of their word, but by their ability to get what their people need, by whatever means necessary."

"A vulturous people."

"A pragmatic people," Loki corrected. "Their world is no easier than Jötunheim; where ours freezes, theirs burns. They, like we, need every advantage to succeed."

"Do they have anything like the rime-shield?"

"It is not thermoregulatory as ours is. They take their body heat from their environment, and grow sluggish when it is cold. They manipulate heat, but it is purely defensive, as a frog's poisonous skin. And they do not throw fireballs, as your fear-mongerers maintain."

Thor nodded. "So our negotiators would do well not to touch them."

"Absolutely do not touch them," Loki said. "That is offensive to them."

Thor snorted. "They sound as prickly as a hedgehog."

"And their manners are a political labyrinth. There is a reason negotiations with them rarely succeed."

"Because they're incomprehensible?"

"Because they have a hundred thousand ways to break a peace, and generally more motivation than not to take advantage of it."

Thor's face was grim. "So we will have to step carefully."

Loki nodded. "Very carefully. I will coach you, do not fear." A thought occurred to him. "Do you know Odin's stance toward the Eldings?"

Thor shook his head. "Not yet. I imagine he will tell me at length tomorrow, when he has had time to think." He pressed his fists against the windowsill, the knuckles white with strain.

 _Do you hate him yet?_ Loki wondered. _Will you?_

Thor barked a laugh, and cast a wry glance toward Loki. "This is perhaps a slightly larger slice of politics than you intended me to start with," he said.

Loki bit back a smile. "Don't worry. You have the advantage of having the majority with you, no matter which course you choose. And, more importantly, you'll have me."

Thor smirked. "You're the most important?"

Moths fluttered in Loki's chest at that smile. "Of course. Believe me when I say, I am highly motivated for Asgardian relations with Múspelheim to go as well as possible." He shifted his weight, sinking back on one hip. "And I am the only one on this floating pie pan who knows even half of what you need to succeed against them."

Thor let out a breath, his mirth spent. "I do not imagine there will be a great deal of networking for this assignment."

"You may be surprised," Loki said. "But no, not compared to some. I wouldn't worry. There are political lessons aplenty here, as well."

"I would almost prefer it the other way around: a complex but internal issue, rather than complex and external."

Loki shrugged. "One cannot change what is, merely work with it." He paused, and one by one the pieces of a plan fell into place. He savored the blooming sensation of victory. "Come," he said. "Let us retire."

Thor gave him a nervous look; Loki returned it tenfold with lascivious promise. He knew his heading, and with it came confidence (perhaps his mother would say arrogance), and a certain... twist of arousal. Thor would suffice, and if Loki was lucky, it would pull his husband's mind from useless reflection. He took Thor's hand and drew him away from the window and into the shadowed, empty halls of early afternoon.

***

"By the Tree, please tell me you won't make me wait another three months," Thor said. "Although, with sex like that I might still take it," he added in an undertone.

"Don't worry," Loki replied, panting. "That was a little quick for my tastes."

Thor started giggling. "I felt like I was a green lad again, burning with need and terrified I'd spill early."

Loki smirked. "Perks of being on the receiving end. You never have to worry about your own performance."

Thor grunted noncommittally. Loki glanced over; even in the dark light of their rooms he could see the blush of color on his cheeks. He snorted. "Don't be so damned delicate about it."

Thor's flush deepened. "I'm not delicate."

Loki snorted again, but didn't deign to comment further. Let Thor keep to his delusions. Loki wouldn't enlighten him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named Vanaheim's ruling council after Japan's Diet, in keeping with the precedent set by Tadanobu Asano, who plays Hogun.
> 
> Óskópnir means roughly "Place of Unmaking," and is one of the places (along with Vígríðr) where Ragnarök takes place. Since the Fire Giants were chief players in Ragnarök, I've decided to use this name as a poetic title for Múspelheim.
> 
> Sinmara is the supposed name for Surt's wife; and since in this story Surt holds a similar position in Múspellian cosmology as Ymir does for the Hrímthursar, I figured Sinmara could be the name of their rulers.
> 
> Járnvid means "iron wood" and was one of the two "haunted forests" in mythological Jötunheim. I'm using it as (another) poetic name for Jötunheim.
> 
> "The Throne of the Three" is in reference to the three brothers Odin, Vili, and Ve. Do not ask me how that works in the political climate of this story, because I have _no_ idea. I just needed a poetic-sounding name :P


	15. Chapter 15

The City heaved in fearful excitement over the impeding negotiations. It was a mere two years, short by any measure, until Varta completed its circuit of the gas giant it orbited, and Asgard's Assembly and the Allfather's privy council frantically went through the previous treaties with a fine-toothed comb to prepare the delegation. Summer passed, a sweltering mirage of heat; fall returned, and finally the welcoming chill of the Asgardian winter.

Laufey's ambassador came in the tired wake of Yule, when the weather turned from picturesque to bitterly cold. Loki was in his study, which boasted not only a weatherstripped interior door but also broad double doors leading out onto the back patio. He spent the vast majority of his day in his study; it was the only place he could both work and feel the winter gusts on his skin.

There was a knock on his door. "The Jötunn ambassador has arrived, my Lord," Halldóra's voice called through the intercom. Loki gave all the members of his household permission to neglect his study, especially the chambermaids, for the simple reason that the only time he caught little Ælfa cleaning out the fireplace, her hands had hands been white with cold.

"Thank you, Halldóra, send him in.”

The door opened, and he made out the shadowed line of his housekeeper gesturing someone in before shock wiped out everything else.

It was Skadi. His mother had sent Skadi to be the Jötunn ambassador in Asgard.

Skadi Thjazason was smooth-faced and serene. "My Lord Loki," he said, bowing respectfully. "It is good to see you, again. May I sit?" He gestured to the two chairs arranged before Loki's desk.

"I--yes," Loki said, cursing his clumsiness. He cleared his throat. "I take it Laufey has briefed you over the situation in the Assembly?"

Skadi inclined his head. "His advisors did the honors, but yes, I am aware of the salient politics."

Loki nodded. He could feel his equanimity trickling back in. There would be hell to pay that evening, when the reality of working with his erstwhile lover in close proximity with his present husband sank in, but for now, Loki was a professional. "I'll have a dossier sent to you as soon as you are placed. I assume you have found lodging?"

"Yes. In the Financial District."

"Excellent. Give your address to my solicitor, he will provide the relevant documents."

An awkward silence settled, and Skadi's expression was opaque. Loki set down his pen to keep from fiddling.

"I feel I should say that I won't let our... previous history impact our working relationship," Skadi said, a faint, abashed hint to his tone. "It is in the past."

"I am glad," Loki said, wary. Skadi had more than reason enough to bear a grudge against him; Loki would, were he in Skadi’s shoes. "We will have a great deal on our hands, navigating these Asgardian waters."

"Oh, doubtless," Skadi said with a sudden smirk, and Loki was unpleasantly reminded just how beautiful he was. He fought to keep from sinking down into his seat. "But we'll give them something to quarrel over, won't we?"

Loki couldn't help the tingle of anticipation that ran through him. He gave Skadi a sharp glance. "Of course. After we obtain our goals." A part of him sat back in surprise at the staidness of that sentence, and even Skadi raised a brow.

"Of course," he repeated. His lovely eyes betrayed nothing. "Well, if you don't mind, my Lord, I will retire and see to the arrangement of my lodgings."

Loki stood. "Absolutely, let me know when you would like me to send you that information."

Skadi waved a hand, rising from his chair. "Any time you can, Loki. It will be a week at least before I can begin to pull my weight."

"Tomorrow it is," Loki said, and Skadi gave a roguishly charming laugh. 

He left in a cloud of crisp, glacial scent, and Loki sat heavily back in his chair.

"Well, that will be a problem," he said.

***

Thjazi was Fifth Scion in Jötunheim (Fourth, Loki reminded himself), but he held more interests than merely a seat in the King's Council. While Loki had spent his childhood learning the ways of diplomacy and court politics, Skadi, expecting to maintain his mother's extensive mercantile holdings, had learned the myriad concerns of trade.

It was Skadi who consulted with Fanje and Menja about suitable warehouse properties; it was Skadi who negotiated the final sales with Esu-Álfheim before shipments began.

And it was Skadi, with his unassailable good looks, who tipped the scales in favor of Frey's prophesied "Jötunn love."

Loki stood beside Thor in the Gathering Hall, and watched Skadi Thjazason wrap the nobles of Asgard around his littlest finger.

"He's very charming," Thor said. Loki turned, and saw the puzzled curiosity on his face. Loki's blood boiled.

"He's very spoiled," Loki said, the first thing that came to his mind.

Thor gave him an unimpressed look. "We are the sons of nobility," he said mildly.

Loki bit back on his jealous, petty anger. Thor was married to him; and besides, what did he care if his husband dallied with others? Had he not done the same?

Really, in the long run it would only be a benefit to have Skadi as his aide. Already the books were balanced too far in Freyja's favor; a merchant-prince was precisely what he needed.

He caught sight of Frey eyeing Skadi across the ballroom and rolled his eyes; he saw Njörd doing the same, and he excused himself to the punch bowl.

The personal pressures of Skadi's presence aside, Loki could not deny the efficacy and use of him otherwise. He attended their nascent business prospects so Loki could devote more attention to the Assembly.

The next session was not for another month, but Loki was doing his damnedest to reach all of the Assemblymembers who were receptive to his advances. He needed to test their mettle, before he was cast into the fires directly.

He solidified his good faith with Idunn by handing her personally a set of fifteen research visas, and a letter of mark from Laufey himself; he salved Völund's ill-humor by plying his smiths with an Asgardian set of armor funded from the newly established Ambassador's credit. He commissioned one for Skadi as well, though he scowled all through the fitting, and bent Loki's ear after about frivolous spending.

Loki ignored it. He was keenly aware of their budget; he was also keenly aware of the power of dressing like the natives. Asgard was insular in the extreme--to be taken seriously, occasionally extravagance must be made to curry favor with the locals.

All the while Loki carried on his lessons with Thor about the Fire Giants. He included Skadi in many of the meetings as well, for Skadi, unique among the three of them, had been to a Jötunn trading fair on Múspelheim's South Pole. He told them of the traditions in the south, of their endless rounds of flowery speeches and praise; of the barely palatable meals of goat stew poured over with melted fat; of the bottomless cups of coffee, poured steaming from silver pots, while all around the visitors reclined on exquisitely woven rugs in the Dwarven tradition.

"They are not unlike the Dökkálfar, in the south," Skadi said. "Indeed, they are close trading partners, and it is not uncommon to find a southern elding refer to Paradise, as the Dwarves do."

"But will we speak with them, or the Midlanders?" Thor asked, his brow scrunching. "They are not the ruling Clan."

Loki and Skadi exchanged brief, tired glances. It was Skadi who answered. "The chief negotiator in the Gálgvid is Fjalar. He is from the south."

"Sinmara appointed him two weeks ago," Loki said. "It was in the newsfeeds."

Thor gave him a small, shamefaced look, then looked back to the table. "Then will the negotiations follow after the Midland or Southern conventions?"

"That I don't know," Skadi said, steamrolling onto an explanation that they would have to be ready for any eventuality; Loki tuned him out.

He stared at Thor. Pieces were slotting together in his mind: daily his frustration over his husband's seemingly willful ignorance grew, for no matter how many pamphlets and reports Loki sent him, the material never seemed to penetrate. He never read the news, no matter how many times Loki hounded him to. He never seemed to read any of the books Loki left him, always asking questions that were answered in print in the most accessible sources.

 _He reads poetry because the words don't tangle on the page,_ he thought. As though a lamp was lit, he realized he was approaching Thor's education from entirely the wrong direction.

Skadi spoke about the ancestral ties between the Eldjötunn clans; Loki watched Thor, and he knew down to his marrow that what Thor heard he would not forget.

What Thor _heard_. Heard, not read. Loki listened to their discussion, and Thor's questions were perceptive and insightful. He watched, and saw Thor was no dullard: his eyes were bright, his attention utterly focused. He did not fidget like a willful child.

Loki wondered at this change, and wondered instead if it hadn't had more to do with his own perceptions than in any hard reality.

He made a resolution, sitting at that table. He would make his husband's brilliance shine, by whatever means at his disposal, for Thor was no more a fool than he himself was barren of magic.

He would make all nine realms see it, and they would tremble in fear. And Loki would stand behind the throne, and he would smile.

***

There was a tense, excited air in the marketplace. From the safety of his café table, and hidden behind the face of a stranger, Loki watched the shoppers mill about.

The last shipments had arrived under the cover of night, unloaded by dour-faced Álfar; Loki had left the proprietors soon after, but they had not noticed, settling instead into a flurry of unpacking. They were good women, both; when Loki had posed before Frigga and Fulla the idea of setting up a shop of Jötunn fibercraft, they had named Sjöfn and Var, two sisters with experience in the world of weaving. “Sjöfn is full of love and generosity,” they told him. “She will look after your customers. And Var, she will look after the numbers. She knows well the weight of a binding oath.”

Together they had leased the shop--with loans from Freyja and the chief bank on Jötunheim--and prepared the way. A series of interlocking show-rooms wove through the building, each displaying a treasure of Jötunheim: bolts of spider-silk, un-dyed and dyed every imaginable hue; hand-knotted rugs from the southern mountains, where goats and sheep were husbanded for the fineness of their wool; and most centrally, a vast selection of loose fibers, both silk and wool, of all conceivable colors, for all conceivable uses.

It was a beginning.

Loki heard the passersby as he wandered incognito through the warehouse: “What a marvelous color! They said spiders spun it!” and “These patterns are so intricate, I should tell my aunt. She has been looking for a new rug, and they would match her set perfectly,” and “Shocking, really, that such beasts could produce something so fine...”

It was a beginning, and as Loki looked over the bounty, and the coins swiftly changing hands, he let out a deep breath.

 

***

It was a month out from the meet with the Eldjötnar that Helblindi requested a formal audience of the Allfather on behalf of the First Scion of Jötunheim. Loki read and re-read his own copy of the request, with an additional post-script requesting a private audience under the guise of familial reunion.

Loki's skin crawled. What could drive Laufey to ask aid of Asgard? He played the crystal for Skadi.

"I forget you have not been on Jötunheim for the past year," he said. "The Return brought many great good things, but also the enmity of Múspelheim. And we, who now depend on Nidavellir for our ores, find ourselves in increasing want, for the Dwarves do not wish to upset their alliance with the Southerners."

"I know that," Loki said, biting back his frustration. "I am not without my faculties, or my resources. But what could have happened to prompt this?" He waved the crystal before dropping it back to his desk.

"I suppose we shall have to wait and see," Skadi answered.

They mutually agreed not to inform Thor--or rather, to persist in the fiction that it was an internal affair, one of socialization between expatriate Jötnar and their friends from home. Odin might suspect the subterfuge, but Thor was yet an innocent in the ways of politics. He acceded to Loki's request for his abandonment of Cloud's End with surprising grace.

"Kin ties are sacred," he said to Loki's bemusement. "I would have you meet with your brother in the way that is most comfortable for you both."

Skadi raised a brow. "Asgard did not hold to the sanctity of kin ties when they brokered your match," he said. "In fact, I seem to recall that your father's demands are what placed Jötunheim in this position in the first place."

Thor's expression was one of wearied indulgence. "Yes, that is so. I am not my father. I do not, now, agree with his policy."

Hidden as he was behind Thor's back, Loki permitted himself a small, smug smile. Skadi saw it, as he was meant to, and was forced to mask his incredulity.

"The Angrboda has grown," Skadi said. "Perhaps we will have to start calling you Thor the Just."

Thor said nothing, and the conversation moved on to other topics. But the threat of Helblindi's arrival loomed closer, and Loki found himself falling into a welter of nerves.

He feared his mother, as he ought. He knew Laufey, knew how to press his buttons, and knew how he was constrained by his post. His mother was predictable.

Helblindi, however, was not. He was not vicious--Loki had never been struck in his young life--but Loki had memories enough of careless words and indifferent gazes when bullies threw him to the ground. He did not trust Helblindi. He did not like Helblindi. The values that bound his mother from gross reprisals were absent in his brother's person, and Loki never knew where the blow would come next.

He arrived, with the Allfather's permission, a week after the formal petition was made. His train, lavish as befit the Second Scion, spilled out of the Observatory. Loki calmed himself with images of the Gatekeeper's disgruntlement. By his side, Thor noticed his paced, measured breaths, and his gaze grew speculative. Loki watched him turn back to the approaching party with narrowed eyes.

How he rued the day he learned his husband was no fool.

"Allfather," Helblindi's high voice rang out, bell-like over the mutterings of the courtiers. "I come on behalf of Jötunheim to discuss Asgard's impending meeting with our Elding kin."

Loki followed the steps as they played out: Odin welcomed Jötunheim, and accepted the gifts he offered; Helblindi expressed his desire to speak privately, King to plenipotentiary; Odin agreed, but not without first extending the hospitality of his hall. Helblindi necessarily accepted.

"Another feast," Loki muttered. "It is plain why you Æsir grow as broad as you do, with such meat to feed it."

Thor shrugged. "You would do well from eating more."

"Are you calling me starved?"

"I'm calling you bony. Honestly, your elbows--"

Official function or no, Loki gave him a taste of his elbows then and there. Thor gave a small grunt.

"I'll hear no more slander about my elbows."

"They are quite fine," Thor said amiably, and Loki found himself smiling, his heart lightened despite the heavy presence of his brother.

The feast was unremarkable. Helblindi sat beside the Allfather, and Thor beside him, and Loki on the other side of Thor. Helblindi ignored him, though he did no such discourtesy to the Crown Prince, his counterpart. The highest of Helblindi's retinue sat on Loki's other side, a curiously chill, ambiguous group, for Loki no longer felt at ease among the large, reserved faces of his own kind. He longed for the simple feast-nights, when he wore his plainest kilts and fended off Balder’s and Hoder's hands from his plate when they were in the mood for mischief. He glanced down the table and saw them seated beside their mother, starched and pressed and looking bored near to tears. He looked to Freyja, and saw she watched the high table with impassive eyes; he looked to the Warriors Four, demoted to a lower table to make room for the Hrímthursar, and they, too, watched warily.

It was progress, after a fashion. The faces of Ægir and Bragi would have been outright hostile before, instead of merely cautious as they were now.

Loki ate his meal and brushed fingers with Thor in passing, and tried to sort through the thoughts muddling his mind.

***

"How might the Ambassador in Asgard assist Jötunheim's heir?"

Helblindi favored him a faintly disapproving look. "Come, Loki. This is no formal meet, to be so stiff."

Loki returned his look with interest. "Then let us not lie to each other, brother-mine. You do not see me out of fraternal love. This is duty; we may as well treat it as such." He kept himself straight and calm beneath his brother's weighing gaze.

"Concubinage suits you well," Helblindi finally said. "As you wish." He resettled his bulk on his chair, the largest Loki had to offer. "What do you know of what I spoke with the Allfather?"

"Why do you suppose I would know anything? It was a private hearing."

"Do not play ignorant. Of course you have spies here; I know your ways."

Loki acknowledged this with a nod. "Out of deference to our relation I employed none. I know only what you said to the assembled court."

"Hmm. My thanks for the courtesy. In short: I asked him to speak on behalf of Jötunheim, as we are now closer allies with Asgard than with Múspelheim, irony of ironies."

"I suspected as much," Loki said. "And as I am part of the negotiating party, you wished me to be informed of the changes."

"Naturally."

"You know the Allfather will suspect our meeting."

"He said as much during the hearing. He is not called canny for nothing, Loki. Be warned: he does not like you."

"It is mutual."

Helblindi's detached demeanor faltered. "Do not take his disfavor lightly, I beg you. It will not end well."

"I outmaneuvered him in the Assembly," Loki said, waving a dismissive hand. "It is nothing more than hurt pride."

"Hurt pride is enough. The Allfather's memory is long; did you so forget so quickly the devastation of Jötunheim? He is not a merciful opponent."

Loki studied his brother's narrow face. They were much alike, he and Helblindi. Their father's blood flowed thick in their veins: narrow-faced, long-nosed, thin-lipped, lean and clever. Helblindi was a truer copy than Loki, he knew; Loki had too much of their mother's cunning and pride; Fárbauti’s callous indifference was all Helblindi’s.

"I hear you, brother," Loki said finally. "Though there is little I can do, at this point; the damage was done well before I ever set foot on Asgard."

"Then do not damage it further."

"Of course. Now. What do you wish to tell me of Jötunheim's request?"

Loki returned to Gladsheim that evening in a worse muddle than before. Gone were Helblindi's uncaring ways, vanished beneath scarce-concealed stress and solicitude. Had it really taken a royal marriage and the proving ground of Asgard's politics to become visible to his elder brother?

He buried himself in the warmth of Thor's arms and tried to forget the uncertainty of the forthcoming weeks that roiled in the pit of his stomach.

***

Varta was a barren ball of rock, little more than an asteroid circling its parent planet. Loki stood beside the rail of the state longship, Thor by his side. Thor was radiating nerves; once again, Odin had delegated this meet to his son, and Loki knew Thor felt keenly his inexperience. The sun of this system rose from behind the striated bulk of the gas giant, and Varta grew larger.

"I have coached you through the welcoming lines," Loki said. "You know them, Thor."

He did, too. Loki had forced him to recite the whole of the traditional greeting as Loki swallowed his cock, and wouldn't let him come until he had completed the recitation. Thor knew his lines.

"This meet is the balance between peace and war for our people," Thor replied. "I cannot help but feel wanting."

"Bragi will assist you, and myself. You are not alone."

Thor nodded, his face set and grim. He wore his full armor, the hammer on his leading hip and Loki's sword on the other. He wore his hair braided back as it would be for battle, but the love knots Loki had woven in were hidden by his helmet. He was mighty and terrible to behold, and Loki felt a thrill of reflexive fear when his face was washed away in the reflected light of the sunrise.

He stood tall beside his husband. He, too, wore his full battle armor: none of the polished, glittering stuff fit for court, but the tested, sturdy field kit he had worn in the Glæsisvellir. His kilt was a deep, inky blue, his armor heavy and scarred over one shoulder where he had deflected a Bergrisar blade. It was tested--that was best, for a meet with the Eldjötnar, who were hungrier than even the Æsir for proof of battle. He had braided his own hair, coiling it up into a club at the base of his neck to keep it from grasping hands in close quarters. He bristled with blades wherever he could slip them.

There was a certain clever tactic to the Fire Giants' insistence on dressing for war at the negotiating table, Loki reflected. The participants never forgot what drew them together, and often forgot to sue for peace. It was hard to remember soft things, when dressed for killing.

The Lady Sif came up to Thor's other side. "We will land shortly," she said. "Ægir said to move away from the rails."

"Will not the shields protect us?" Loki asked, gesturing to the veil of _seiðr_ swaddling the ship.

"Not if you fall overboard," Sif answered tartly. She nodded to Thor and stalked away.

"I do believe I am growing on her. She hasn't called me 'Frost Giant' in nearly six months."

Thor gave a distracted half-smile. "Your dedication to my preparation has helped somewhat."

"Perhaps I should send the House of Surt my thanks. I have always dearly desired Sif Leifsdóttir's goodwill."

"Be nice."

They moved away from the gunwales toward the center line of the ship. Thor absently placed his hand upon the mast. Above, the solar sail creaked, bowing beneath the weight of the sun as it slowed their descent toward the moon's surface. The decks purred from the engines below.

"Ship sighted!" The steersman called, pointing off the starboard bow to the vessel approaching from the planet's shadow. It, too, was a longship, though it bore twin hulls and two blood-red, triangular sails to the Asgardians' single square.

Signal flags flashed back and forth between the ships, and they began their descent. Light flickered and flared as they cut through the atmosphere, but no heat touched them; Loki watched as the sail folded in on itself, compressing down into the mast to allow the shield envelope to contract inward against the onslaught. To their right burned the ethereal flickers of their counterpart's passage. Loki took Thor's hand, his face and the faces of the crew and ambassadorial party lit by the glow of atmospheric friction.

There. Their destination: the country villa of a former regional governor, long-abandoned in the continual uncertainty of shifting borders. They stayed in deadlock with the Elding ship, head-to-head in the race for groundfall. The dry, ozone-scented air of the upper atmosphere filtered through the shield, trading the lingering smell of burnt feathers and hot metal--the smell of the void--for the black-powder stink of the moon itself.

The villa sat on the edge of a great canyon, perhaps once in prehistory the site of a vast mountain lake, but now drained dry. Jagged peaks rose all around, and as one the two ships settled through the shifting winds to the dock. Thor moved to the port side, and the ambassadorial party gathered behind him.

"Strength in battle," Loki murmured as Thor stepped onto the gangplank.

"To win the fight," Thor replied, and led the way to the Eldjötnar contingent. Loki paced by his left shoulder, and Bragi by his right. A series of clerks and secretaries and lesser ambassadors followed, but they were the chief representatives, and would speak with the Allfather's power.

"Hail and well met, Thor, son of Odin," the lead elding said. He stood a full ell above Thor's height, and he was crowned by magnificent curling horns.

Thor spoke second, as was expected of the invited party. "Hail, Fjalar, son of Kvasir," he said. "It is good to see the Sons of Múspell so well-led."

"Indeed, the pleasure is returned a hundred-fold. Asgard does us great honor."

The pleasantries continued down the line, introducing the members of the negotiation party in the correct order and with the correct words. Loki bowed when he was introduced.

"Curious to see a citizen of Jötunheim at a meet for Asgardian interests," Fjalar said, and Loki froze.

This was not part of the usual acknowledgement of a leader's spouse. "I represent both our peoples," he said cautiously. "The Hrímthursar are my blood, and I will always speak with their voice--but my wyrd has been tied to Asgard. Their interests are my interests, too."

Fjalar nodded, seeming pleased by this statement, and his eyes were heavy on Loki for a moment before the introductions carried on to his assistant, a small, rooster-like elding named Eggthér. Loki breathed a sigh of relief.

He grew more nervous as the day progressed. No actual negotiation would occur today; both camps would retire to their respective corners, and in the morning, at the dusty table in the dining hall, they would treat in earnest. Loki examined the bodies of the females as the Elding line passed, but he saw no signs of pregnancy. His mind spun in a dozen directions, following a dozen dozen paths toward disaster, but as far as he saw there was no offense, no wrong done.

There were only eleven allotted days more before they were in the clear. Only eleven days to survive without misstep. He stared out the window upon the desolate mountains and felt sick with nerves at the prospect.

"Come to bed," Thor said softly, wrapping his broad, pale arms over Loki's waist. His warmth was comforting, in this barren place.

"You remember what I said of how to broach the subject of the Dökkálfar shipments through--"

"You said to do it couched in a request for isolation. I remember."

"And not to belabor--"

"Loki. I remember." Thor's voice was deep and quiet. He rubbed his thumb against Loki's aching temple. "Sheath that sharp-edged mind of yours, and let it rest. I'll need it honed and fresh tomorrow."

Loki sighed against his shoulder. "We are neither of us diplomats."

"We can't hide from what is," Thor said. "Only press through it to the end." He kissed the top of Loki's head, between his horns. "Come to bed."

***

Loki braced his arms against the wash basin, breathing through the nausea. At first he had thought it was nerves--he was under a great deal of pressure, after all, and it grew wearing, constantly checking and double-checking every word for hidden meaning--but he began to think perhaps it was more than just stress.

"Loki? We are ready to assemble." Thor stood in the doorway. He looked tired as well; Loki was sure he expended equal effort trying not to lose face before the Eldjötnar.

"One moment." Loki rinsed the taste of vomit from his mouth, and straightened. He checked the lay of his armor, despite his desire to curl up in a ball and sleep for the rest of the day.

"Are you feeling ill?"

"It is nothing," he said. "A stomach bug, exacerbated by stress."

"If you need to stay in bed..."

"No," Loki said, stiffening. "No, that would be far worse than being ill. I assure you, if I do not appear, they will take it as a sign of weakness."

Thor hissed through his teeth. "By the Tree, everything we do could be taken as an insult. These negotiations cannot end soon enough."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Loki murmured, swallowing against the roiling in his stomach.

They walked into the negotiation room as they had for the past eight days, in a silent row, fanning out to line their half of the table. Loki masked his trembling hands by clenching them around the pommels of his daggers.

All members stood before their chairs. Thor and Fjalar shared a nod, and at their signal all sat as one. There was no call to order; order was assumed, and willed in to being by the gravity of the occasion. Loki reflected on the tedium of his marriage negotiations; how he longed for the simplicity of that meet, compared to this diplomat's snare.

He gave himself permission to let his attention wander. Thor knew he was ill, and would take that into his maneuvering. They had already worked out a system of warning each other before they were to address them, so as not to catch each other off guard. Loki pressed his calf against Thor's, and waited for the nudge to indicate his involvement.

It was a long wait. Loki sat straight in his chair, showing none of the discomfort that rippled through his body. As the morning waxed, a cramp developed in his lower back that no amount of subtle twisting could alleviate. He closed his eyes.

There--a press against his calf. He opened his eyes.

"Loki, could you give me the figures for--Loki?"

He had turned, somewhat more sharply than he had intended to collect the paperwork from his assistant, and there came a stabbing pain in his belly. He gasped, hunching in and pressing a hand against it. He heard the voices around him clamor, but he heard nothing but buzzing in his ears. A sudden, warm wetness between his legs drew his attention, and he dabbed at his dampened kilt, though he already recognized the sharp, iron-tinged smell. He raised his fingers to the light. They were smeared dark with blood.

He pushed back his chair, staggering to feet as panic seared his veins. He looked around. The Fire Giants looked silently on, though there was a glitter in Fjalar's eyes that made Loki scour his muddled thoughts for what he had said wrong. He wavered.

"Sit down," Sif said, looming before him. "You're losing too much blood." Her hand was hot against his skin, and strong as she lowered him to the floor. He winced against the pain in his stomach. Over Sif's shoulder he saw Thor, white-faced and confused; the counselors behind him were scrambling, but Thor seemed rooted to the floor, his gaze locked to Loki's.

He whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut. He'd done something, he--he hurt--

"Call the medic! You'll be alright, Loki, just breathe, lay down and try to relax..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gálgvid, or "gallows-wood," is the second of the two "haunted" forests in Jötunheim. I'm using it to describe the ruling Council of Múspelheim.


	16. Chapter 16

Loki watched Varta's sun shrink into the distance from his nest of blankets. Negotiations had resolved quickly after Loki's poorly-timed miscarriage. He had been six weeks along, by the medic's best estimate, though he cautioned Loki that his primary experience was with wounds of battle, not motherhood. He had washed his hands and left him in Sif's company.

She had watched him for long minutes, her face uncharacteristically opaque, but Loki had found himself too tired to care. It was not the miscarriage itself that had threatened his life, he learned, but the loss of blood that followed. He had fainted right there in the meeting hall, and Sif and two others had been forced to carry him back to his rooms while Thor salvaged the negotiations.

There had been little to salvage, Sif finally told him. "They acceded to all our demands," she said, puzzled, and Loki closed his eyes.

"Then they had not come here for the negotiations at all, but for us to make a mistake. And I gave them what they wanted."

Sif had frowned at that, but Loki cut off her question. "Please go now. I would like some time alone."

She went without a word, and Loki watched the sunset through his bedroom window.

The next day, the negotiation party prepared to leave Varta. They were successful on paper, for they had a signed treaty giving them all the disputed lands as well as a solemn promise that the Eldjötnar would not attack Asgardian convoys through the sector bordering Nidavellir.

Loki couldn't help but notice the pall of failure that hung over all their heads. They had won the battle, but they had lost something far more valuable, though no one knew, yet, what that was. Loki drew into himself and welcomed the sleep his weakened, hungry body demanded. 

When Varta's system had disappeared into the vortex of hyperlight travel, Thor sat beside Loki's pallet.

"What do you think they have in mind?" he asked.

"We'll find out soon enough, I'm sure," Loki replied. "They will strike while my failure is fresh in the collective mind, the better to humiliate Asgard by association."

Thor sighed, and stared out into the abyss.

 _I'm sorry_ , Loki thought.

It was another two weeks' voyage to Asgard, and by then Loki had healed sufficiently to walk the length of the ship, though he was still weak. He had been very close to death, he was given to understand. The news that met them when they disembarked was hardly better than the disaster they had left behind. Hevring came to him with a folded paper note from Freyja:

_The Allfather has arrested the conspirators. Mind yourself._

Loki tucked it in his boot and climbed the stairs to Gladsheim. Courtiers watched his progress in Thor's wake, and he saw the dour, dismissive looks they gave him. Loki couldn't find it in himself to blame them; he had singlehandedly sabotaged negotiations with the Fire Giants and killed the future heir in one stroke. It was a masterwork; if he had meant to put Asgard in a worse position on purpose, he couldn't have managed better. As it was, he wished for nothing more than to hide from all the Realms.

That mercy was not forthcoming, however, for Freyja came to his chambers as soon as he had taken his seat. She came to kneel beside him.

"I would not press," she said, "but you must know. As soon as word came in of the events on Varta, the Allfather had Gerda, Fanje and Menja arrested, and placed Völund under house arrest. I am being watched, and even Frey is under suspicion for his long ties with Gerda. You alone are clean, Loki; this is not an accident. He is sending you a warning."

Loki sighed. "Helblindi was right."

Freyja waved that aside. "I must urge you, do not take up any action in the Assembly, and counsel your assistant likewise to remain scarce. Sentiment is not yet turning against you, but it would be altogether too easy for the wrong word to undo all you have worked for."

Loki stared at his hands. "If I had been slower in my push for an ambassador..."

"’If’ will get you nowhere," Freyja snapped, rising to her feet. "I will not speak with you for a time, Loki," she said. "I do not mean to be cold, but I must look to my own alliances. For the time being, that means distancing myself from you."

"I understand."

She wavered in the doorway. "I would not have it be this way," she said.

"Please, go."

"Until we meet again." She left in a flutter of skirts.

Loki allowed himself one more day of grieving before he forced himself to his feet and dressed. He did little more than stay in his rooms and stare out the windows, his hands clasped behind his back. His mind was blank, almost blissfully so. He let his thoughts drift without direction.

Thor did not come to see him.

Another day passed. Loki spent it catching up with his correspondence. His information network had shrunk dramatically in the wake of his tacit failure. _Rats fleeing a sinking ship_ , he thought to himself.

Sif came one evening, after dinner had been cleared away. She sat awkwardly in his sitting room, staring at the shaded gray tapestries. When prompted for the reason of her visit, she jumped. 

"My mother suffered two miscarriages after she had me," she blurted. "Eventually she was forced to block pregnancy, for her body would not tolerate another."

"That is very interesting to hear," Loki said. He had found his reactions dulled, along with most things. Hevring hovered around him at mealtimes of late, pressing him to take one more bite. It was... tedious.

Sif flushed. "I tell you so that you may understand: this is not your fault."

"Is it not?" Loki asked. "Was it not my failure as vessel for the royal seed that caused this entire catastrophe?"

"It wasn't a catastrophe," Sif snapped.

"Not yet. Give it time."

Sif stood, her face descending into a far more familiar scowl. "I have made no secret of my dislike for you," she said. "I disdained your heritage, your underhandedness, your sly, cruel ways. I despaired of you as a fit partner for Thor, and swore that I would watch you for the slightest hint of duplicity. You were a fit threat, one to be watched, one to be wary of. Even after you miscarried I never thought you weak. But know this, Loki of Jötunheim: I see you now, timid and fearful in your rooms, and you have become weak. There is no home for you in Valhalla, not even should you die in birth. You are cowardly, a shame even to the Jötnar, who do not value pride as we do. Pick yourself up, Son of Laufey. Act the prince you are, and reclaim your sting." She sneered at his dumbfounded look, and swept from the room. 

He let himself watch one more sunset, and resolved to do as she said.

The next morning, Loki took his breakfast in bed, as had become his wont. Hevring told him the healers had refused his request for bacon, but non-medicinal teas would be pleasant all their own, so he didn't complain as loudly as he might have.

He pulled up his newsfeed, determined to catch up with what he had missed. He sipped his tea and scanned his backlog. It was a setback, losing his allies to the Allfather's machinations--but perhaps he might be able to turn a failure into success.

He was interrupted by Skadi storming into his chambers, pale-faced and grim. 

"Have you seen?" he demanded, holding up the data chain about his wrist.

"Seen what?"

Skadi waved his hand, transferring it to Loki's newsfeed, and new headlines filled the viewer. He barely registered spilling hot tea over his hand. 

MÚSPELHEIM DECLARES WAR ON JÖTUNHEIM, _The Well_ proclaimed. Loki set his cup back on his tray and read the rest of the article.

"After months of tense negotiations, ten generations of peace collapsed in a bloody coup upon Jötunheim's capital, Útgard. Reports are still coming in, but it is agreed that the facts are thus: a strike force of Eldjötnar, spelled to withstand the cold of Jötunheim, entered through the Dwarven Waygates. They entered the palace, perhaps with the aid of an informant, and took First Scion Laufey Nálsson hostage.

“When asked what motivated their attack, representatives from the Court of Óskópnir responded by saying, ‘The Hrímthursar gave offense by holding military negotiations while their chief representative, Loki, was pregnant.’

“Loki Laufeyjarson's high-profile marriage to Crown-Prince Thor of Asgard effectively brought him into the fold of Asgardian politics, and sources from the Asgardian Assembly say that Loki was on Varta representing Asgard, not Jötunheim. When asked about this discrepancy, the Eldjötnar refused to answer.

“All eyes now turn to Asgard, to hear their reply to this unprovoked attack on their new ally."

Loki stared blankly at the screen. "Huh," he said, then promptly threw up over the floor.

***

For the better part of the rest of the day Loki's head spun in a whirl of sick incredulity and despair. The fire giants were Jötunheim's oldest allies, and now--and now, singlehandedly, Loki had not only severed their alliance, but set kin against kin.

Skadi attempted to stay, but Loki kicked him out as quickly as he could, leaving him in the deathly silence of his rooms. Gladsheim's walls were thick, and stood high above the noise of the city below. His window stood open, admitting a salty breeze, but all he heard was the tuneless muddle of the wind chimes and the croak of the Allfather's ravens.

If only he hadn't pushed so hard for an ambassador. If only he hadn't twisted so quickly to Thor's request. If only he hadn't been quite so cocky, if only.

He watched the sky darken as he lay curled on his side. Hevring came in to ask him if he wished for supper. Loki ignored him until he went away. He stared out the window until stars picked their way out from the twilit sky.

Sometime after the glow of the city's lanterns drowned out the stars, Loki heard voices in the entry hall. Hevring's he knew, and he thought perhaps the other was his husband's. He turned his face into the pillow. Why did Thor have to come see him, when he had so earnestly avoided him up until now?

The voices grew louder, Thor's more insistent and Hevring's more panicked, and Loki sighed.

"I will see my wife, damn you!" Thor spat, rounding the corner into Loki's bedchamber. His footsteps paused. "Loki? Are you ill?"

Loki considered a number of responses before settling on not saying anything at all. It was less effort.

"He has been this way since this morning, my lord," Hevring said behind him. "The news of Jötunheim..."

There was a pause, and an air of expectation as though Thor meant to speak several times but cut himself off. His armor squeaked as he turned. "If you would leave us," he said. Then heavy footsteps toward the chair beside the window.

"It is not a lost cause," Thor said, settling himself down. Loki could see him out of the corner of his eye. He sat awkwardly, as though unsure of his welcome. It occurred to Loki that the last time Thor had entered these rooms, he had tried to rape him.

"I am dying to hear your rationale," Loki found it in himself to murmur.

Thor looked down at his hands. He was limned in the faint light from beyond the balcony, a silver shadow hunched beside his bed. "Asgard is not happy with Múspelheim's attack," he said. "I have followed several newsfeeds per your suggestion, and consulted with a number of people including the servants, as you suggested, and they are not pleased. The Assembly, too, is in an uproar."

Loki grunted.

"I--I think..." Thor cleared his throat. "It would be a good time to petition on behalf of Jötunheim."

"What, pray tell, would I petition for?"

"I don't know. For Asgard to go to war, perhaps."

Loki shifted, raising his head long enough to set it down where he could better see Thor. "And do you think they would? For Frost Giants?"

"Perhaps," Thor said. "If I petitioned with you."

Loki stared at him for a time. "What would war mean for Asgard, Thor?" he asked. "Tell me. What are the consequences of entering a war that is not yours."

Thor was silent.

"When you can answer me that, then I will listen."

"Nothing will happen if nothing is what you do!" Thor snapped, before turning his face. "Perhaps I cannot see the long view, but clearly _you_ have no trouble. Tell me something, Loki: would you rather your people be subjugated once more, or would you rather the ally you did not have in previous wars step forward and intervene for you?"

Rage spilled through him, and Loki surged upright. "You would dare?" he demanded. "You would _dare?_ Múspelheim is not Asgard! They were our greatest, staunchest allies, and they could not help us when Asgard attacked because Asgard held--and still holds!--Surt's Sword! Do not put yourself in the position of savior now!"

Thor had stood, shocked to his feet by the tumult of Loki's attack, and he stood now as a man before a bitter truth: open, grief-stricken, and brought low. "I meant no offense," he said. "Merely that I would help you, if there was a way I could."

Loki stared at him, his thoughts moving slow as an ice-laden river. Would it be so fruitless to take up Thor on his advice? There were enough trade allies now between Jötunheim and Asgard that a case could be made, and Asgard had wed its heir to Jötunheim's lesser son. Not to support them in their time of need could be damaging to Asgard's honor.

"I will consider your advice," he said, sitting back on the bed. "Now please leave."

"Have you eaten?" Thor asked.

"Leave me be, Thor."

"I will have the servants bring up a tray for you." He made as though to go, then turned back. "Perhaps something cold, that will not suffer poorly from inattention?"

"Go," Loki spat.

Thor went. He shared quiet words with Hevring, then the door to his chambers thumped closed. Loki buried himself back under the covers and curled in as close to a ball as he could manage.

He slept, and when he awoke there was a tray beside the bed, of cucumber soup and rolled cold cuts, as well as pastries with honey and nuts. An apple and a flagon of water rounded it out.

Loki gazed at it for long minutes before he roused himself and ate. He began to plot. 

***

Loki gazed up into the rafters of the Assembly Hall. A covey of pigeons roosted on a crossbeam high above; he couldn't hear them cooing over the susurrus of the Assemblymembers' voices as they deliberated, but he saw their tail feathers and downy breasts fluffing as they shifted.

What must it be like, to be a humble pigeon? In a city such as this, surely no great hardship. The goshawks of hunting nobles were a threat, as was the lime the birdcatchers spread out over the rooftops and statues; but Loki was sure that, down in his heart of hearts, he would rather be one of the pigeons in the rafters than Prince of Jötunheim. He turned his gaze back down to the Assembly Hall floor.

He stood upon the speakers' stand, as was fitting for a petitioner. He wore the badge of office of Jötun Ambassador, as was his hard-earned right. Thor had spoken truly: the people of Asgard were displeased with Múspelheim's attack, and there had been shouts of accord during Loki's address. But there was, Loki had found, a difference between disapproval and willingness to declare war. As soon as Loki had made his point the hall had fallen deathly silent.

Now it was in an uproar. Every Assemblymember shouted over the other, throwing notes at servants to carry across the room to distant desks when they could not make themselves heard over the din. It was a tumultuous topic, and yet the Allfather, who had every reason to know what Loki was bringing before the Assembly, was absent. That did not speak well of his chances.

Three other seats sat empty, their owners under house arrest. Freyja's father, too, was absent, and Loki could not divine the implications of such an absence, convenient as it may have been for the House of Njörd. Without their voices to bolster him, and with Loki's stubborn refusal to permit Thor to help, Loki's odds of swaying the council were very slim indeed. Skadi had done an admirable job in coaxing a few politicians into seeing their way, but now, in the face of an Assembly-wide uproar, he saw them crumple beneath indecision.

"Enough!" Forseti, the Allfather's arbiter in his absence, beat the staff of his office against the flags. "Silence, I say!"

Silence came in fits in starts. One by one the councillors turned to face the pulpit, lowering their fists and voices.

"There will be a vote on the issue of raising war against Múspelheim on behalf of Jötunheim," Forseti said. He turned to address Loki. "Will you accept the ruling of this council?"

Loki inclined his head. "I will." 

Forseti nodded. He swiped his console, and the consoles of the councillors flickered awake. "You may vote 'aye' or 'nay'. Commence at your leisure."

There was a tense moment as the Assemblymembers made their vote. Tallies and figures danced over Forseti's screen, just the edge of which was visible to Loki's sight. 105 in favor, Loki saw upon the screen. The Assembly was three hundred strong.

Then Forseti shifted, and even that small scrap was taken from him. He clasped his hands behind his back and strove to keep a serene air.

Forseti's console gave a soft chime, and the room tensed. Forseti read the figure, then looked over the room. "The balance lies one hundred sixty-seven against, one hundred thirty-three in favor. This council does not support a declaration of war against Múspelheim." 

Loki nodded into the fraught mutters that followed. "My thanks, Lord Arbiter."

Forseti nodded in turn, and gestured to the bailiff to escort him from the stand. Loki went calmly, holding his fists behind his back so none could see their trembling. He kept his poise all through the chambers of the Assembly Hall, and kept it along the walk to the portal that would take him back to the palace. He smiled amiably at the guards at Gladsheim's private entrance, and chatted with the servants. Röskva especially was glad to see him hale and about.

It wasn't until he was safe in his chambers, the door locked behind him and all listening ears turned away, that he let his façade crack. With a hissing shout he threw a vase against the wall. "Damn them all!"

He let himself sulk until the shadows leaned long. Better to goad himself into anger than sink into weak apathy once more. 

Frigga came to his chambers that evening, as the city's lamps were being lit. Loki shrank away from her presence, leaning against the doorposts for the balcony to keep distance between them.

"My servants tell me you haven't left these rooms since the Assembly's ruling," she began, her voice steady and unruffled.

Loki watched her but said nothing.

Frigga walked around the fringes of the room, taking in the tapestries and running her hands over the top of the couch. "My husband's war council has convened," she said. "They have been arguing without cease these past three days, and the Assembly grows restless."

She stopped a distance away from him by the windows, staring out upon the haze of summer humidity that hung like a pall over the city.

"Why are you telling me this?" Loki asked.

Frigga gave him a stern look. "I do not always agree with my husband's politics."

Loki raised a brow. "You wish for Asgard to declare war on Múspelhiem?"

"I believe we can no longer deny the central place Jötunheim holds in our relations between the realms," she answered. "Like Vanaheim, your people are now inextricably a part of Asgard's, no matter how our respective kings come kicking and screaming."

"A sister realm, then," Loki said. "So--you wish for Asgard to declare war on Múspelhiem."

Frigga gave an exasperated huff. "I do not want war at all," she said. "If there were another option, one that would not be officially sanctioned, but which gained intelligence to benefit our position--that, I think, would be of use." She gave him a steady look. "Your family is on Jötunheim, are they not?"

Loki glared at her.

"Asgard could not, of course, sanction any course of action that threatens the stability of the realm. However." She gave a sideways glance, cutting in its intensity. "We would give asylum to whatever refugees found their way to our doors."

Loki's throat went dry. Frigga went on. "There are certain pathways through the mountains that, if entered precisely, might lead a traveler to other realms. This is what I have heard." She gazed solemnly upon a statue of Ymir Recumbent. "They are a difficult path, but if this traveler needed to move in secrecy, they could be a boon to him."

"Why are you telling me this?" Loki was rigid. He heard the Allmother's words, but shock held him fast. "What benefit does it gain you?"

Frigga waved a delicate hand. Delicate, but Loki saw for the first time the calluses that lined her palm. A swordsman's calluses, at odds with the weaver's calluses on her fingertips. "It is a woman's worry, that children are not hurt by their parents' foolishness." She smiled benignly. "I have also grown used to having Jötunn fibers close at hand, I would be deeply distressed to have my supply removed."

Loki had never trusted her less. "If you mean to send me into a trap--to warn the fire giants, or the Assembly--"

"I will do neither," Frigga said. She folded her hands before her. "We women of Asgard know what is to see our family caught in war, and to be unable to lift a finger. You may choose to remember or forget what I have told you." She swept from the room, and Loki smothered a twinge of guilt. His emotions twisted through his chest, and he spun around, staring out into the brightness of an Asgardian evening.

News from Jötunheim was sparse. His informant web, trimmed by the Allfather's strike, told him no more than the newsfeeds: Múspellian forces held the cities and the Jötunn heartlands, and even now were closing in on Gastropnir’s fisheries. The southern continent was untouched, but there was little there but sheep and Bergrisar bandits. The only untouched land was the Glæsisvellir, but only a fool or a nomad would step across those plains. Loki touched his father's armband.

He would have a narrow window to make his move. He was a prince, a diplomatic liability. The Allfather could not so easily put him under arrest as he could guildmasters, but Loki was not so naïve to think Odin Single-Eye would not put him under a watch as close as theirs. He glanced out the doors, to the pair of ravens sitting on the balcony. Their beady eyes watched him. One ducked to preen his compatriot's feathers.

Loki sat in the chair beside his bed and plotted.

***

Loki's boots crunched over the frost-rimed grass, his heart pounding in his chest. His breath huffed in the air before him, a thin wisp. His whole body had steamed, coming out of Frigga's secret Path, the warmth of Asgard leaving him in a cloud of vapor even as its moisture left icicles. Loki clinked softly with every step. His skin prickled with the settling chill of home. Ahead, the suns of Jötunheim were rising, and the light sent scattered rainbows as far as the eye could see.

Glæsisvellir.

Frigga's Path had been subtle. Little more than a crevice in the rock, it had sung to him of magic. _Seiðr_ bled from the staves chipped into the granite around it. It had taken him three days to transit the narrow slot, wedging himself blindly around fallen boulders and biting back shudders as unseen crawling things skittered over his exposed flesh. He had kept the plains clear in his mind, for the magic of the Path demanded it; he wrapped his cloak about him while he rested, and thought of the familiar domes of the nomads' tents. He ate from his pilfered supply and imagined it was the flat loaves he had made under the supervision of the tribal fathers.

Now he was there, standing on the northern cliffs of the Nálar Range. Beyond the end of the mountains was a vast plain, humping up and smoothing out like the waves of an ocean. It went for as far as his eye could follow, both to the east and west as well to the north, and it was unbroken by either city or road, or any other sign of a civilized hand. A scattering of small black shapes moved in the distance, a herd gathering to forage.

He pursed his lips and made his way down to the foothills. A solitary shrike wheeled overhead, and beneath the ever-present whistle of the wind, a fox barked. Loki let his mind drift as he focused on placing his handholds. His cheek tickled from his furs. He ignored it. All that existed was himself and the cliff face, and the drop behind.

The suns were setting by the time he reached the lowlands. Behind, the mountains flared red and gold in the dying light of day; before, the plains curved up to meet the darkening bowl of the sky. Loki placed a bundle of undyed wool on the ground, surrounded it with a small ring of stones, and whispered a cantrip. A heartbeat passed and a tent stood in its place, a small ger suitable for a single occupant. Loki ate another strip of his dwindling reserve and watched the day fade below the horizon. When the second sun had set and the world plunged into evening, Loki unfurled his bedroll and ducked into his shelter.

Tomorrow, or perhaps the next day, he would reach his father's clan, and he would beg their mercy. Until then, he would sleep.

Travel across the bitter tundra of the Glæsisvellir was not for the faint-hearted. Loki wore his matrimonial bearskin, tugging it low over his shoulders against the wind, and at night kept a mage-light close to beat back the seeping cold. It was bone-aching, stronger than even his _hrímskjöld_ could fight. He wrapped his metal buckles in strips of cloth, and tucked his hair about his hood to trap what heat he could. He ate his rations, meat and berries in solidified blocks of rendered fat, and envied the tiny white foxes their fur. They chittered about his campsite, dodging within his reach before scampering away, their ears back and their tails up in mischievous glee.

Better it was winter, than the boggy morass of summer. Loki counted his fortunes where he could, for while the penetrating cold was wearing, it was preferable to the clouds of midges that swarmed when the permafrost thawed.

By midday he crossed the boundaries of his clan's land. The markers were subtle--scratches through the lichen in a rock outcrop, shifts in the types of trail signs showing where watering holes would appear in summer. Loki cinched the straps of his pack and stood straighter. His heart beat apace. 

By late afternoon, he had found them. They lay encamped in a shallow dell, with a low stone wall set up against the wind on the eastern side. The herd of elk bugled and lowed, each standing taller than Loki at the withers; they mingled freely with the clan's dire wolves, raised with them from infancy by the same hands of their Jötunn masters. Beyond, a row of tents hemmed in the western edge of the dell. Dark figures made their way between and amongst the herd, and beat aside the wolves when they grew too rowdy. Loki stood fifty paces beyond the edge of the encampment and let himself be seen by those below.

Runts were common enough on Jötunheim, but the number of runts who wore the marital bearskin of a nomad chief were few. Loki was the only one of this clan. He stood, and he watched them gaze at him and confer. There was little joy in their faces.

After the proscribed time, when the first sun had dropped two hands lower in the sky and was riding the lip of the horizon, a single figure made their way up from the encampment. Loki swallowed back his nerves.

"Loki Meinkráka," Ekkja said, leaning against his goad. "It is ill that you came here."

"I would have spared you my presence had I any other choice," Loki replied, opening his hands submissively.

"What need brings you to our lands? Do you not live in Asgard these days? Return there, and take your stain with you."

Loki ground his teeth. "You would have me forsake the rest of my kin?"

Ekkja's eyes were hard. "It was easily done when your mother brokered the _handsal_. We have no quarrel with the Eldings."

"That is treason," Loki hissed. "Say what you wish of me--I am nothing. But will you say such things of your liege? The spouse of your brother?"

"My brother is dead," Ekkja replied. "Slain in a battle stirred by my liege's hand. I have none left to me, after your family touched them."

Loki glanced into the bowl of the encampment. Ekkja had greeted him, as was traditional; he was the closest blood Loki had. The Law of Hospitality cut through even the deepest hatreds. There were others whose faces were not so hostile.

"And do you speak for the majority, or is your voice merely the loudest?"

Ekkja's face grew pinched. "I am not the Speaker. I have welcomed you; it is their decision what to do with you, now." He turned and stalked back down the slope to the encampment. Loki trailed in his wake, leaving two footprints in the frosted grass to Ekkja’s every one.

It was a better greeting than Loki had feared.

The Speaker awaited them. Loki saw the lines of his rank drawn across his forehead, and he bowed. “I seek your aid in a venture,” he said.

"Hmph. Is this venture to be run tonight?" the Speaker's eyes were bright in his weathered face.

Loki couldn't help the wry smile that spilled across his face. "Ah, no, tonight would be much too early."

"Then it can wait until morning. The jarl is on a hunting trip; he should be back tomorrow. Until then, rest, young pup. We'll see you sorted." He turned and trundled away, and Loki followed after his bent back.

"I assume you'll stay in the Guests' Tent?"

A surge of bitterness coated the back of Loki's throat. "I will, yes."

"Hmph. Ekkja always has had a touch of the dramatic. Well, come along."

Loki followed. He rested his back in the Guest Tent, identical to the other gers but for its lack of family insignia. He had no family here, anymore. He laid out his bedroll and sighed at the ceiling far above. Asgard had spoiled him.

He stayed in the tent that night, away from the laughter of his father's tribe and the warmth of their fires.

***

Loki spent two days and nights under the protection of his father's tribe. In the morning he hunted fox and grouse, and in the evening he shared stories and Asgardian mead, a delicacy in these lands. He felt the weight of the elders' eyes on him as he went about his chores. They were considering him. If they decided in his favor, he would be allowed to petition them for aid.

They knew why he had come. Loki supposed they discussed whether they wished to risk their stores on him.

Another might call it treason, not to cleave to the son of the rightful First. Thor would certainly chafe beneath their caution. Loki knew better. The autumn wind sapped the moisture from his lips, and he did not press them. The hardest months of winter were approaching. The Jötnar were a hardy people, but the Glæsisvellir did not know mercy.

On the morning of the third day, the Speaker came to him. Loki was oiling and wrapping the buckles of his crossbelts, to keep them from cracking in the cold; he rose when the Speaker stopped in front of him.

"You will speak before the Elders," he said. His words were formal, his bearing distant; but Loki could see the warm twinkle in his eye, and he was comforted. They would support him.

Indeed, the air in the High Tent was calm, even sedate. The waterpipe stood in the center of a half-circle of the tribe's eldest and wisest, some of whom were a bare century older than Loki. The hose traveled slowly down the row, from greatest rank to least. Loki sat back on his knees before them, in a pose of respectful attention. The waterpipe stood taller than he did.

"Loki Fárbautison," the Speaker said, taking his position at the center of the circle, exactly opposite Loki. "You come seeking aid."

"I do, Honored Elders."

"Speak, and we will consider."

He presented his case. Some of the younger ones looked thoughtful; some frowned, but most kept neutral faces. Still, there was less hostility here, in a tribe where he owed weregild, than in the Assembly Hall on Asgard. These were his people, his kin. Whether they decided to help him or not, they were not his enemies.

"We have heard your petition, Fárbautison. It has given us much to think about. We will reconvene when the second sun lowers from its peak, and tell you our answer."

Loki bowed from the waist. "I thank you, Honored Elders." He took the offered hose and inhaled the spicy smoke deep into his lungs. Then he levered himself up and left the tent.

The second sun would reach its height in the sky in two hours. An hour after that, Loki would know whether he would return to Asgard, or whether he would stay. Either way, he would be leaving the encampment. He returned to the Guest Tent and started packing his belongings.

When Loki returned to the High Tent, he was dressed in his traveling clothes, his bearskin slung over his back and his plain, sturdy boots laced to the knee. He could not read the council-members' faces.

"We reconvene to pass our judgment," the Speaker said, and passed the waterpipe hose to the most respected of the Elders. "Will you, Loki Fárbautison, yield to our ruling?"

"I will."

"Then it is so: we will grant you a single wolf and sleigh, and supplies for a week. This we provide in good faith, that you may finish your mission."

Loki had suspected this would be the outcome, but still he sighed against a flush of relief.

"However, you come to us already in a position of great debt. The value of this aid will be added to your weregild. And Loki," the Speaker said, his eyes solemn in the gloom of the tent, "if you return again to this tribe before your weregild is paid, we will kill you."

The relief froze in Loki's chest. He forced himself into a bow. "I accept these conditions," he said woodenly.

 _It was to be expected,_ he told himself. The waterpipe hose passed to him, and he watched his exhalation dissipate into the air, mingling with those of the Elders, until none could be distinguished from another's.

"Then go, and may the fox be in your heart."

***

The encampment was a good three leagues behind him when the second sun touched the rim of the horizon. Loki reined in his dire wolf from the ground-eating trot she had taken on. In the silence that fell when the runners no longer ran over frozen grass and snow, he was reminded fiercely of the laughter of the children that had raced after him upon his parting. Children had no knowledge or care of tribal politics. They only saw him as an oddity, a plaything and a friend, not a kinslayer. Their joy had been a balm, however short-lived, to the bitter knowledge that he would not see them again in this lifetime.

Some weregilds could be paid inside the span of one life. Others could not.

Loki went about the slow business of making camp while the light lasted. The wolf he let roam loose; she had taken his smell, and would not stray beyond earshot. The sled he laid out as a windbreak, and set the ger in its lee. His dinner was roasting on a spit by nightfall.

It was a calm, clear evening. Loki heard the distant roaring of a tor, and the nagging chirps of a grouse as she chivvied her chicks into the nest. The wind soughed through the fields of wild hay.

It was all the more a surprise, then, when the screaming column of Bifröst descended not four yards from where Loki sat. Its impact blew sparks from his fire, and Loki spent a frantic moment smothering them before they set his gear--or the grass--aflame.

"Have you completely taken leave of your senses?" he yelled when the Bridge faded and Thor was left standing in the midst of its afterimage.

"Why did you come here!" Thor bellowed in return. "You should be resting, not consorting with frost giants!"

"I _am_ a frost giant!" Loki shrieked "As is every sentient mind within five hundred leagues, and now they know a high-ranked Asgardian, if not a full war party, is on their soil! Have your wits left you altogether!"

Thor stalked forward, fury bright in his eye. "I have come to bring home my wayward wife," he said. "I will not tread long on their hospitality." He grabbed Loki's arm; Loki broke his grip and dodged to the opposite side of the fire.

"You will do no such thing!"

"Give me one good reason why I should not!"

Loki drew himself up as much as his meager height would let him. "Because if you do, the ruling House of Jötunheim will be executed, and its cadet branches hunted down and slaughtered, and what was once merely a curiosity, _me_ , will instead become a liability. The Hrímthursar are not so loyal to Asgard that they won't follow their kin against you, should an Elding puppet take the throne."

His words struck true, and Thor faltered. The rage in his expression banked, then flared anew. "Why didn't you tell me! Why didn't you trust me to help?"

By all the spirits. Loki waved a hand behind him, taking in the tent, sleigh, and wolf. "I would hardly have received such a gracious leave-taking, had I arrived in a nomad's camp dragging the Angrboda in my wake."

Thor scrubbed a hand down his face. "By the Ancestors, Loki, you would try a god's patience. You are not alone! You do not have to work alone!"

"Call down the Bifröst and prove it."

"That makes no--" Thor narrowed his eyes at him. "What is your play?"

Loki crossed his arms over his chest. "Call down the Bifröst and you will see."

"No. You will tell me, first. I am owed that much."

Loki gritted his teeth in silence, and Thor threw up his hands.

"Do you try to be as obstinate as possible?"

A bitter laugh poured out of Loki's chest. "Is that a joke?" he demanded. "All of Asgard knows you have a head as hard as your hammer! Do not speak to me of stubbo--"

"Yes! I am stubborn! But perhaps that is as well, if I have to deal with _you_!" The echo of Thor's voice disappeared over the plains. He took a deep breath and let it out again. "I do not see why my calling down the Bifröst will prove my point." He shook his head. "I barely remember my point, any longer."

Loki would not feel guilt. He firmed his resolve, but unbent his pride. Just a little. "Whatever eyes have witnessed the descent of Asgard's Bridge will also watch for its return. If you wish to help me as you have claimed, then you will call the Bridge, so as to make it seem as though you have left Jötunheim."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the fluted wail of the Bifröst descended, this time near a league out from their camp. It vanished just as quickly. Loki blinked in surprise. "Well, at least the Watchman has sense." He turned to Thor. "Are you satisfied?"

Thor's expression spoke of deep exasperation and weariness. "Yes, I am satisfied," he said. "May I sit at your fire, or must I offer ritual humiliation for the privilege?"

Loki snorted. "You have no idea how tempting that is. But. You may sit. Supper is, as you can see, almost done."

They arranged themselves on either side of the fire, awkward with each other in a way they had not been since they tracked through Asgard's hinterlands so many months ago. It seemed as though they were destined only to fight or fuck, and if not those two, then to be at a loss for words. Loki offered Thor the roast, as befitted the laws of hospitality. Thor took it with clumsy hands, which befitted neither his skill as a warrior nor, judging by the flush staining his pale cheeks, his ego. Loki found he cared little. Útgard was a week hence, and he still had no plan.

"If--" he stopped and reconsidered. "If your father was captured by the Vanir and no one would aid you," he asked, "what would you do?"

Thor froze mid-chew. He stared at Loki for a moment, then swallowed and spoke. "I would lay waste to them," he said. "It is doubtful I could hold for long against the full might of Hachiman's armies, but I would take as many of them with me as I could." He regarded Loki solemnly, his eyes unearthly in the firelight. "But I do not think that will help you in this quest."

Loki sighed. "No. It will not."

"Perhaps if you told me your goal? I am not so fine a strategist as you are, but I suspect I have a greater talent for tactics."

Thor's expression was earnest, even as he shivered in his armor. He made no mention of the cold, and indeed tried not to advertise how close he sat to the fire. Loki stood abruptly and walked into the tent. He had a number of furs in his bedroll; he had little need of them, wrapped as he was in his bearskin. He gathered them up and stepped back out. Thor was glaring at the fire. He looked up when Loki reemerged, naked surprise on his face. Loki tossed the furs at him.

"Before you freeze," he said roughly.

Thor took the furs hastily. "My thanks," he said. "But...?"

Loki resettled himself with a sigh. He stared into the fire, and drew the words to himself. He spoke. "We can no longer move safely over the plains. If we are to reach Útgard, there is but one path for us." He met Thor's gaze. "Tell me, Prince of Asgard. What do you know of Frigga's paths?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glæsisvellir means "glittering plain."
> 
> Ekkja calls Loki "Meinkráka," which means "harmful crow" and makes me think of "Gandalf Storm-crow" every time I hear it--which is fitting, since LOTR was basically Tolkien's epic 400k Poetic Edda fanfic :P
> 
> Hachiman is the Japanese god of war and the divine protector of Japan. In my fic, he is commander of Vanaheim's armies.


	17. Chapter 17

Thor looked upon the narrow crevice of the Path with poorly concealed apprehension. "It looks very small," he said, drawing his furs closer about his person. "You are sure we will fit?"

"I believe the passage expands or contracts depending on need," Loki said, pulling the bindings loose on the sleigh. "However, it will be close."

"But the sleigh and the wolf..."

"Do not worry about them." He dragged out the tent and began to set it up.

Two days and two nights had passed, and Loki once more found himself at the base of the Nálar Mountains, this time with his wayward husband in tow. He had worried how he was to get the sleigh up the ridge to where the Path stood, but his fears, he saw, were unfounded: the gate was up ahead, at the base of a massive wedge of basalt jutting out into the prairie. It glimmered half-hidden in the shadow of a crevice.

It had moved according to need, it seemed. Loki couldn't bring himself to be surprised.

Loki made camp as he had every day previous, but Thor was a tense column of nerves. He hid it well--not for nothing was the Crown-Prince formidable in battle--but his hands jittered over the guylines, and his eyes were wide and watchful.

"Why do we set up camp?" he asked. "There is daylight, yet. Would it not be better to begin our passage as soon as possible?"

Loki glanced up at the suns settling down through an afternoon sky. He tied the rope fast.

"No. It takes three full days to walk the Path. Entering it when the suns are setting means entering them as their magic is darkening, and while it can be done, it is better if we do not. It will be a hard enough journey as it is."

That evening was tense and silent. Loki spent it, as he had every evening since deciding to take the Path, preparing for the journey. He prepped chemical flares from the natural deposits of the tundra; he rearranged their supplies in the sleigh so they would lie better for his purposes. Thor kept close by the wolf, who was uneasy at the nearness of the Path's magic. He gentled her with soft words and gentle hands, and fed her small scraps of meat to soothe away her animal instincts with animal comfort, and permitted it when she pressed close to his side, almost knocking him down beneath her greater weight. Thor permitted it, and Loki refrained from noticing the bloodless white of Thor's face each time he looked to the crevice.

"Be at ease," Loki finally barked at him. "Your restlessness does nothing." He held out a slice of roasted hare wrapped with tart berries and cheese in a roll of flatbread. "Be at ease and eat."

Thor forced himself to still, and he ate. He ate four more of the wraps before he visibly mustered himself and said, "I am sorry you lost the child."

Fury bloomed in Loki's chest, so bright it nearly blinded him. "Yes, all of Asgard is sorry. But I imagine Jötunheim regrets it more!"

"I meant for your sake. I am sorry you lost your child." He looked down at his restless, twining fingers. "I had not given much thought to fatherhood until after, and. I am sorry. It is a hard loss."

Loki's wrath puffed out like a candle flame in a gust of wind. "Neither had I," he said. "Thought of parenthood." He busied himself with banking the fire. "Perhaps if I had, I wouldn't have--I would sent someone else in my place, or I would have been more careful--"

"Loki, no," Thor said softly. "This is not your fault. Nothing you could have done would have changed it."

"Do you know that?" Loki stared him down, the fire forgotten. "Do you know that for certain, Thor?"

Thor's eyes looked best by firelight. They were a dark, deep blue, like the deepest inner reaches of a glacier, or a sapphire held up to the light. His eyes were unwavering. "No, I don't know," he said. "Perhaps bed rest would have prevented it. But I know that my great-grandmother had four miscarriages before she bore my grandfather to term. Perhaps it will be the same with us, and if that is so, I am just as much at fault as you. Or perhaps you would like to blame our races, as it's their fault we can't mingle our seed easily." He flicked a tuft of grass into the fire. "Blame is useless, in this case. But our child? I regret he died."

Loki let out a shuddering breath, and it felt as though a demon, which had secured itself between his lungs and restricted his every breath since he had woken up bloody in the negotiation house, went tumbling out with it. He inhaled deeply, and his spirit felt lighter.

"We should retire," he said. "Tomorrow will come earlier than either of us will like."

Loki slept poorly, that night. He and Thor had taken to sharing their bedrolls to stave off the chill, for while Loki could rely on the _hrímskjöld_ to protect him, Thor had naught but his thin, fragile skin and what furs he could pile on to keep warm. Thor had fallen asleep quickly, despite his apprehension; Loki envied that gift.

Múspelheim could be cruel, when they felt themselves slighted. Their judiciary favored burns and brands as methods of punishment, and their scaphization of an entire noble family for the crime of treason had shocked the Realms. To have such cruelty directed at his family... Loki shuddered, wrapping his arms around himself.

A pale arm draped over his waist, jerking him from his thoughts, and Thor's sleep-warm body pressed against his back. "Quiet," Thor rumbled against his nape. "Sleep." A soft snore followed.

The burning warmth of Thor’s skin chased away the cold thoughts of the night. Loki let himself sink backwards into his body, and a sliver of peace found its way through his worries. It was enough. When next he opened his eyes, it was to the pre-dawn gloom of morning.

Breakfast was eaten on the go, as they packed the sleigh to Loki's exacting specifications, including on it Thor's armor at Loki's urging.

"But why?" Thor had asked. "Surely the sleigh will not fit in that crevice."

"Not as it is, no," Loki answered. "But there are ways of making things fit." He waved his hands over the sleigh, whispering a cantrip, and it shrank until it was no larger than a rucksack. Thor's eyes bugged.

"And the wolf? She is taller at the withers than I am."

Loki rolled his eyes. "Kinje, sit." The wolf sat, her ears pressed back along her skull. Loki scratched along her muzzle and murmured to her in the patois of the nomads. As he spoke, she let out a high-pitched whine and began to shrink, until she was no bigger than a pup. Indeed, she _was_ a pup, with the dark fuzz and blue eyes of a juvenile. He picked her up and placed her wiggly body in Thor's arms. "That will suffice, I think."

Kinje nuzzled into Thor's tunic, yipping and scrabbling at his arms. "She is smaller, at least," Thor said, grunting at the weight, and pushed her snout away from his ear. He drew up his cloak and wrapped it around her, improvising a sling across his chest.

Loki turned away and bent to lift the sleigh. It was no less heavy than it had been at full size, and he let out a measured breath as he lifted it to his back.

"Surely you do not meant to carry the sleigh," Thor said. "It will be a great burden."

Loki scowled at him. "The wolf will be burden enough for you to boast at table." He adjusted the straps so the weight settled over his hips. "Come, time is pressing."

He led the way into the cleft. The staves flared green as he passed beneath them. He didn't look behind; Thor would come or he wouldn't, but looking anywhere but straight ahead for the first steps, with thoughts other than his destination in mind, would ruin the pass and send them the Foremothers only knew where. He fixed the image of Útgard's domes and watchtowers in his mind. He cracked a chemical flare; he heard the wash of magic as Thor entered the secret ways.

The first hour's trek was easy, as it had been the first time. The Path was smooth, the walls generously spaced, and the ceiling far enough above that it didn't feel like he was buried alive. Thor's breathing was easy behind him, and the pup's growls from play, rather than fear.

The second hour changed that. The walls cramped in on themselves, the path grew more twisted, and the slow drip of water in the distance echoed until Loki thought he would go mad. It was an endurance test, he knew; a test of the willpower of the walker, and the strength of their desire. He said as much to Thor, when they broke to eat and drink.

"When we walk," he said, "do not distract me outside of the direst emergency. If my concentration breaks we will be lost."

Thor had nodded, his face blank and set. "Why don't you use a magelight?" he asked, nodding to the flare burning at Loki's knee.

"Any magic I use in this place will confuse our way, and we will be lost."

They walked, and in Loki's mind's eye he was striding through the winding Old City. They climbed a tumbled slope of shale scree, and Loki was scrabbling up the snowdrifts to see the merchant caravans wend their way into the city dell. Kinje barked, and it was the yip of the wild foxes on clear winter nights, when Loki lay warm in his bed.

That night, it was Loki's turn to settle the uneasy sleep of his husband. He drew Thor to his breast, and stroked through his hair. He settled, and Kinje burrows her way between them, curling up in their nest of warmth. It was the most peace Loki had ever felt.

By morning Kinje was silent and fearful. She clung to Thor's legs, tripping him more than once, and buried herself in his cloak when it came time for travel. Thor was little better. Loki saw how white his fingers were around the wolf's body, and the tightness in his voice when he spoke to her. They were skittish in the extreme, jumping at the slightest fall of rock, the faintest scrape of chittering legs against stone.

"There are creatures other than ourselves in this cave, aren't there," he asked over the midday meal.

"Yes," Loki had said. His head ached from concentrating so deeply. "Do not let Kinje chase them."

They came to the first stricture before they stopped for the night. It was not as bad as they would become, Loki knew, but it was severe enough: an hour's travel hunched over forward was not kind on the body. He heard Thor's labored breathing, smelled the sharp tang of fear that came from his sweat, and dreaded what was to come.

"What is it that you fear?" he asked that night, brushing the hair back over Thor's temples. Thor sighed raggedly against Loki's chest.

"I feel as though I am being buried alive," he said. "What if we become lost?"

"Trust the magic not to lose us," Loki said, fingering the small braid in Thor's hair.

"I have no trust in magic."

Loki swallowed his replies. The magic would carry them through, or it would not. He could do nothing for Thor's fear, and indeed, Thor seemed to recognize this, for he said nothing at all on the third day until they came to the worst of the narrows: a thin slot barely wider than a man that forced them to shuffle sideways, slipping their bodies between two walls of crushing rock. Kinje was draped about Thor's shoulders; Loki was carrying the sleigh, and was praying they met the end of the stricture before it took off his fingers.

"Loki," Thor said, his voice cracking. His voice was both loud and small in the gloom. "Loki, I think I am stuck."

Loki stopped in his tracks and carefully pulled himself from the walking trance. He let out a breath, and he looked behind him, to where Thor stood pressed between the walls. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breath coming too fast. He moved as though to shuffle forward, but he was caught against something, and would not budge. His hands were on the wall before him, his arms bulging as though he were trying to push the very rock itself away from him. "Loki, I--I can't breathe."

He was hyperventilating. Loki slithered back to him, and the first thing he did was pull Kinje from his shoulders. He went up on his tiptoes and dragged Thor's head down to meet his. He pressed their foreheads together.

"This Path is not a physical path," he said. "This is a path of the mind, and it will do what it can to foil your journey."

Thor's breath was moist against his lips.

"Fear will not help you, Thor," he whispered. "You must master your fear before you can go on, because the Path knows you fear it. It feeds on your fear."

"I can't--I can't--"

"Breathe with me," Loki said, pressing himself against Thor's side. "Calm your breathing, and you can calm your fear." He settled into a pattern he had used for his own youthful panic attacks, when he had felt so small and helpless that it had risen in his throat to choke him. Thor didn't seem to notice. "Breathe with me," Loki hissed, prodding him in the ribs until he sucked in a sobbing gasp. "And stop breathing so high in your chest, there is no give in the stone. Breath from here--" he thumped Thor's belly, "--where there is room. You are not going to die, Son of Odin; I will not allow it."

Thor opened his eyes; sweat stood out on his brow. Loki caught his gaze. "I am here," he said as firmly as he could. "Now breathe with me." He sucked in a deep breath through his nose, and let it out through his mouth. "The pattern is in for four, hold for five, and out for eight. Let the muscles of your stomach expand, and you will be able to take in more air." Loki kept his hand over Thor's stomach, to remind him.

They may have been there for hours. Loki did not know. He only knew the narrowed world of stone close against his chest and back, of the labored sound of Thor's panted breath. By the time it settled, tears had soaked into Thor's beard. Loki made no comment on them. Instead, he felt his way around the crevice.

"You had to expel the air in your lungs to get here, didn't you," he said. 

Thor nodded bleakly.

"Then you will have to do so to get out. You are very close; you will not have to do so for long."

Thor gritted his teeth and pushed at the stone with scraped hands.

"Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Take three deep breaths, as deep as you can--"

Thor did.

"Good. Now force them out. Stand as tall as you can, force them out--good--" Loki seized Thor's arm and yanked sideways, and with the force of desperation driving Thor from behind, he popped free from the blockage like a cork from a bottle. He took a vast, gasping breath, his eyes fluttering shut. For several long minutes he did nothing but breath. Loki let him. Kinje scrabbled at his thigh, whining piteously.

"We are never going this away again," Thor growled when his voice returned.

"You may travel as you choose," Loki said, and turned back to the tunnel. Thor grabbed his hand.

"Loki," he said. "Thank you."

Loki stared at his hand, shivering at the feeling pouring through him. "It was nothing," he said, and pulled away. He resumed the lead, falling into the walking-trance. Útgard was familiar. Útgard was beckoning, with glacier berry cordial and lefse and lingonberry jam. He steadied himself and walked forward. They were almost through.

***

They emerged in the evening, the first sun hidden beneath the horizon and the second half-buried to meet it. Thor sank to his knees, his face upraised to open sky. His face bore such relief and bliss it seemed an invasion to watch it. Kinje flopped around his ankles and snapped at drifting snowflakes.

Loki didn't let him recover for long. They were on the South Road, where it sliced into the tundra to carve out a canyon path into the dell of Útgard. Cliffs rose steep on either side of the road, and if a traveler were to happen upon them now, there would be no place to hide. The cleft of the secret ways had already vanished.

"I do not like magic," Thor said.

"You live surrounded by magic," Loki snapped, lowering the sleigh. "Your armor, your hammer, the magelights in the palace, the cantrips that keep your meals warm. Asgard is filled with magic."

"It is a different kind, and you know it. This is banecraft. Beguilement."

Loki stiffened. "If that is your opinion of it, then perhaps you would prefer to be captured by the Eldjötnar. I'm sure it has been far too long since they burned an Asgardian alive."

Thor gave him a dark, puzzled look. "What do you mean?"

Loki gestured widely, taking in the whole of the road. "There is little cover here, husband dearest. And you are quite plainly not a jötunn. I have a solution, but of course it's banecraft. Beguilement."

A gust of wind blew through the canyon, ruffling their cloaks and carrying with it the sound of distant bells. "That would be a merchant caravan," Loki said. "They should be here in under an hour."

Kinje butted up against Thor's side, and he ran a callused hand over her ears. He sighed and rose to his feet. "Magic is not seen on Jötunheim the way it is on Asgard," he said, half to himself, as though he were reciting lines by rote. "I am on Jötunheim, so I will do what you say is best." His gaze was steady, resigned.

Loki nodded sharply. "Take your cloak and fasten it as mine is," he said. "The tunic is not ideal, but as it is better than exposing you to the cold, you will become a scion of Thrym, and thus modest." He stepped up and placed one hand against Thor's forehead, and another over his heart. "Don't move."

The glamor required few words, but a great deal of concentration. Loki forced his mind into compliance, and visualized the illusion to the finest detail. He spoke the words, released the energies, and knotted them back so they would hold without his attention. The drain on his reserves was immediate. He masked his wobble with a step back, and examined his handiwork.

"I feel no different," Thor said.

Loki conjured a sheet of reflective ice and held it for him to see. A jötunn stared back, bloody-eyed and blue. Clan lines from an obscure family in Thrymheim stood upon his brow, and his hair and beard, while still present, were now an inky black. Any other day Loki would have savored Thor's thunderstruck expression, but a bone-deep ache of exhaustion leeched his mirth. He stared dully as Thor touched his cheeks.

"I feel no different," Thor said again, quiet and stunned.

"It's just a glamor," Loki said tiredly. "You are still you beneath it."

Thor nodded, smoothing his hands down his tunic. "You said there is a caravan coming?"

"Yes."

"Then let us ride out to meet them," Thor said. "If they overtake us while we walk to Útgard--"

"They will notice they did not see us before," Loki cut in. "Yes, I know." He waved a hand over the sleigh, sighing as it grew to its proper dimensions; the wolf was somewhat harder, both to pin down and to re-size. He sank heavily into a squat when he finished. Thor made no comment, merely went about hitching Kinje, restive and curious, to the sleigh. When all was ready, he held out a hand to Loki.

"Come," he said. "You should ride in the sleigh, at least for the time being."

Loki stared at his hand for a moment, contemplating the effort standing, before gritting his teeth and taking it. Thor pulled him to his feet, and then off his feet, scooping Loki into his arms before depositing him in the sleigh. It was not an especially comfortable seat, but it was better than walking. Loki let himself doze.

He was woken by the jingling of harness bells and the low whuff of strange wolves meeting. The sleigh rocked alarmingly to the side, and Loki heard Kinje's whine of displeasure. Thor murmured to her soft words; Loki could not make them out. He opened his eyes. They had pulled into the drainage runnel by the roadside, the better to allow the caravan to pass. Loki propped himself up on a wobbly elbow to watch. Thor came to his side, solicitous and wary in equal measure. His red-dyed eyes flicked between Loki and the caravan, as though he expected the one to expire and the other to attack at any moment.

"Are you well, Loki?" he asked.

"Well enough," Loki answered. "I have my dear spouse Thrúd to care for me, after all."

Thor's fingers hitched over the blankets, then steadied. He nodded.

"Are you alright?" a voice called out. "You are not injured or ill?"

"We are well," Thor replied, turning to face the jötunn who had broken away from the caravan. "Just tired."

The jötunn waved the caravan on when it made to halt; clearly he was the master. He came up close, towering over both of them, and peered at Loki. "You look more than tired," he said, and Loki almost laughed at the half-forgotten bluntness of his people.

"I am tired," he said. "But I recently had a miscarriage. We are going home to family."

"Oh," the caravan master said, his voice softening. "I have lost two children of my own, though not to the same grief." He laid a comforting hand on Thor's shoulder, completely encompassing it. Loki saw his Thor's hand clench into a fist, where the jötunn would not see.

He pressed on, oblivious. "You are from Thrymheim?" He looked Thor up and down, taking in his well-covered form. "I have family, there, as well. I am sure they would welcome you."

"Ah--thank you," Thor began, but Loki cut him off.

"Tell me their names, and I will visit as soon as I am able."

The caravan master did, and then he turned to Thor. "You would make the better dam, I think, should you try for more children. Clearly you are strong; your children would be strong, as well."

Loki froze. Such a sentence would be worth death on Asgard. He watched Thor carefully, but aside from a stiffening of his shoulders, he reacted not at all.

"Do you say my spouse is weak?" he demanded instead.

The caravan master raised a placating hand. "Merely I meant that if your spouse proves unable." he glanced to Loki. "Without disrespect, of course; we cannot control the Norns' favor. Your family is clearly blessed, to have such strengths among you." He gestured to the binding spell over the wolf's harness, preventing tears. He said to Loki, "It is your work, I assume?"

Loki nodded.

"It is fine work. Your children will be blessed." With that, he turned and walked to catch up to the retreating caravan.

Thor turned back to Loki, his face completely blank. "I am pleased I will bear such favored sons," he said, and Loki stifled his giggles.

"You are plenty strong," he squeezed out. "Though where they would gestate I couldn't say."

They both giggled like schoolboys, then Thor sobered. "If I could bear them instead of you, I would do so, if it meant keeping you safe from harm."

"I--" The words dried up in Loki's mouth. He swallowed. He pushed himself upright to cover his shock, testing his limbs and finding them sturdy enough to risk standing. Thor's hands were warm at his elbow.

"Is it usual for strangers to be so solicitous of others' fertility?" Thor asked as he helped him from the sleigh.

"Oh, it was probably just because we're runts."

"Ah..."

Loki smirked at Thor's embarrassment. "Short jötunns are rare, and precious for it. We tend to be coddled." He took a step, then shook out his limbs and readjusted his kilt. "That is not always to our benefit." A thought occurred to him, and he turned to stare at the dell of Útgard. "Oh," he breathed.

Thor came up beside him. "What is it?"

"My mother has always been a harsh parent," Loki said softly. "He gave me little praise, little aid, and little encouragement. I resented him for it. I still do, but..." The magelights of the city winked like stars in the dropping twilight. "I think I understand him better, now. Whatever else it was for, also it was to keep me from going soft."

The silence hovered like firebugs on an Asgardian night, soft and warm with the memory of youth. Loki turned back to Thor. "We should go," he said. "My mother is waiting."

***

Útgard was empty. The shops closed, the streets silent but for the footsteps of the passing Nightwatch. There was a hush of fear tucked in the alleyways and lintels, and curtains twitched aside as they passed. Blasted scorchmarks littered the walls.

And yet, to the practiced eye there were signs of growth: the protection staves carved over the doorways were strong and clear, and the binding wards at the crossroads were hale. Over the jagged rooftops Loki could see the spires of the Temple, intact and whole. His heart clenched. Kinje whuffed behind him, and Thor, blind to the rejuvenation of Jötunheim, reeked of wariness.

Loki sympathized; they were exposed, the only people outside. He felt eyes crawling up his back, but no one was there.

"Do you have a plan?" Thor whispered.

Loki didn't answer. The truth was, he did not. It was not a pleasant admission.

"[Hey, you!]"

Loki's blood froze. He turned, and the Múspellian glow of an eldjötunn heat ward lit the streets around them, baring them to all and sundry.

"[Why are you out past curfew?]" He was a magnificent specimen, easily ten feet at the shoulder, and his horns, curled and mighty as a ram's, cast daunting shadows over their faces. He also spoke in the Jötunn trade speak, which none but Jötnar knew, and which Thor, being Æsir, would not understand, Allspeak or no.

"Our apologies," Loki said, in Common. "We are recently come from the North, and did not know there was a curfew."

"[Who are you visiting?]" The elding said, raising his ward lamp higher. Warmth washed over them, as well as yellow light. Loki prayed his glamor held true.

"We have family in this part of town. My mother's brother is having a child, and we are coming to pay our respects."

"[Use the language of your foremothers when I talk to you,]" the elding snapped. "[Do not disrespect your heritage by using the tongue of the white devils.]"

Thor glanced to Loki, his face pinched and worried beneath the hrímthurs mask.

Loki straightened his shoulders. "[Of course,]" he said simply.

The eldjötunn gestured to Thor. "[Does this one speak?]"

"[He... fell victim to an unfortunate illness as a child,]" Loki said cautiously. "[It took his voice from him.]"

The eldjötunn's eyes narrowed. He held the ward lamp above them both and circled around them. "[Your sleigh was wrought by the nomads,"] he said. "[And this wolf, too, came from the Glæsisvellir. Will you say again you came from the north?]"

"[I have kin, there,]" Loki said, showing the clan lines across his chest. It was doubtful this eldjötunn could read them for what they were: a royal lineage. Even so, a tinge of desperation stained through him. "[They gave us shelter and supplies for the journey across the plains.]"

"[If you had kin in Útgard surely they would have informed you of the curfew,]" the elding said.

"[It must have slipped their mind.]"

The eldjötunn's nostrils flared. "[I'm taking you to the Forge.]" He moved forward threateningly, and Loki lurched back, dragging Thor with him.

"[On what charge?]" he demanded.

"[On the charge of being out after curfew without a permit,]" the elding said, and he reached for Loki's arm.

The singing hum of Mjölnir cut through the chill air, and the dense, meaty whack of metal against flesh followed. The eldjötunn collapsed like a puppet with his strings cut; Thor returned the hammer to his cloak. Loki stared in shock.

"Oh, perfect," he finally spit out, wheeling on his husband. "Absolutely spectacular! Now when the guard wakes he'll have a description to give of two short giants--which are highly noticeable!--one of whom wields a hammer remarkably like the Angrboda's! Thank you, _Thrúd_ , this helped us immensely."

"He was threatening you," Thor said simply. "Now he is not."

"And is that all you thought? Was that the only thought going through your walnut brain? That he was threatening me?"

"It was cause enough to lay him low."

Loki stared at him in wordless fury. He let out a clenched shriek. "Why did I marry you!"

He was distracted from his building tirade by the sound of a bolt being pulled back, and a door creaking open. They both turned to look; a hrímthurs stood silhouetted against the dark of the courtyard gate beside them. He took in the tableau, and the fallen eldjötunn behind them.

"You had better come inside, before the Nightwatch finds this," he said.

Loki stood frozen for a moment, before he exchanged a glance with Thor. "And if we decline?" he said.

The jötunn shrugged. "Then the next patrol will find you, and they will take you to the Forge." His eyes narrowed. "There's enough curiosity bred with one short jötunn, but two of them, one from--" he glanced Thor up and down, "ah, from the north, and the other from the Glæsisvellir? You will be noticed."

It was Thor who spoke. "We will take your offer," he said. Loki glared at him. Thor glared right back. "Do you have lodging for our wolf and sleigh?"

"Yes, in the courtyard. Come through, Highnesses."

Loki's step hitched, and Thor blanched.

The jötunn nodded. "All the more reason to come inside."

They did, Thor coaxing Kinje into yet another ice-rimed tunnel, and Loki casting a memory glamor over the fallen elding. He would not remember the events of the evening clearly, at least not for a day or two, while it held. Then he slipped after Thor into the courtyard, and their rescuer bolted the door behind them.

"My name is Mímir," the jötunn said. "I know your names, but perhaps you should say them to me again, that I do not make an error."

"I am Lopt," Loki said, rushing across Thor's puzzlement. "And this is my spouse, Thrúd. We have come to visit my mother and brothers, whom I have not seen in many years."

Mímir nodded. "I thought this might be so." He gestured toward the main house, after the wolf had been unharnessed and bedded down. "Truly, your luck is exceptional, though whether it's for good or ill I'm not certain." Loki stepped into the lodge, and a host of eyes met him. He hesitated. He had forgotten, during his time on Asgard, how much taller his countrymen were than he.

"Goodfolk," Mímir said over his shoulder, closing the door, "May I present to you the Consort-Concubine of Asgard, and his spouse, the Crown-Prince. Unless I miss my mark, they mean to liberate Laufey."

An elderly jötunn rose from the ranks. "That is fortunate," he said. "But I rather doubt your ability, child. We have tried for many months to gain access to the Forge, but the guard is far too strong; what makes you think you will succeed where we have failed?"

Loki bristled, and behind him, he felt Thor's anger spike. "I am not a child," Loki spat. "I am old enough to wed, am I not?"

The elderly jötunn's eyes flicked to Thor, and his blue glamor. "Indeed. And to be a frith-weaver, too. Hail and well met, Angrboda."

Thor restrained himself, for which Loki was thankful. "Hail," is all he said.

Loki continued. "And while I am not as strong as you, I have other gifts." He lowered the glamor covering Thor. The room recoiled, and he had to remind himself that to a hrímthurs, the pale, ruddy skin of an ás was nothing short of deathly. He stifled his surge of indignation. "We are also smaller than you, High Ones. We can fit in places you cannot."

"High Ones," Mímir snorted behind him. "No. We are merely rebels. But if you can free your family, then you, and even your spouse, shall be called great. Come, there is food enough left for you, and a warm bed upstairs; and perhaps in the morning when you are rested we may discuss plans. If this truly is an act you mean to go through with?" He eyed Thor.

"It is," Thor said. "I cannot atone for all my war crimes, but in this way I might make an attempt."

Loki went still, reading the room with all his skill at diplomacy. There was anger, resentment, and fear, but also surprise, curiosity, and even, across a few cannier faces, hope. He was no seer; the Eye had passed him over when the Norns parceled out his gifts. But he had a gift for the long view, and he saw in that room, in that moment, a glimpse of a stronger future. His limbs tingled with the _hrímskjöld_ and he drew himself up a little taller, a little prouder.

"Mm," Mímir said, breaking the hush. "To the Norns' ear, be it. In the meantime, eat." He herded them into the hearthroom and sat them down with large bowls of fish stew. It was bland, after the richly spiced meals of Asgard. Loki forced himself to scrape the bowl. Thor, too, ate heartily and without comment, though he did glance once at Loki, his expression unreadable.

Then they were politely nudged off to bed, like children up past their bedtime. Loki permitted it, but only on the grounds that he felt certain he could sleep for a full season, and that the conspirators had much discuss, now that they had come; and that none of it was for their ears. They bundled themselves into the fur-draped bed--little more than a padded platform risen from the ice beneath--and stared blankly at the darkened ceiling.

"That was not the welcome I would have expected for me, in Jötunheim's capital," Thor eventually said.

"Yes, there rather was a shortage of dismemberment on both sides," Loki murmured.

Thor shuffled over onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to gaze down at Loki. "I had not truly realized, just how difficult it must have been for you, to grow up in this place. Everything is so much larger, I feel like a youngling, again."

"Staircases were always a particular hardship. Naturally Útgarda-Keep has hundreds."

Silence fell between them, and Thor reached out to trace the mother-line down the center of Loki's chest. "You said this declares your maternal line," he said. His finger was warm against Loki's cool skin. Loki felt his nipples pricking up at the contrast.

"It is," he shifted. "It is the Sigil of Ymir. Only a Scion of the ruling house may wear it."

Thor's fingers stilled. "But what if the newly ascended is from a different line? You said Bergelmir the Something took the throne after all the Scionage were killed. Surely he didn't bear the sigil."

"Bergelmir the Magnificent," Loki said absently. "Not to be confused with Bergelmir Prime, or Bergelmir the Bold." He tangled his fingers with Thor's. "In such a case, the line would be changed by a _seiðrmann_. Only one of Ymir's line may rule, even if he must first be adopted into that line."

"Is it so easily done? Changing a scar aged into a person's flesh?"

Loki peered down at his own chest. Thor's skin was striking, against the darkness of his own. "Hm. No. I imagine it hurts a great deal." He flopped back and gazed up at Thor. "Worse trials have been fought for the sake of kingship."

Thor's expression grew wry. "Trials like forgiving ancient enemies?"

"Only ancient by yours and my standards," Loki said, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, the lies we've both been told--"

He was cut off by the soft press of Thor's lips against his own. Loki froze, and Thor pulled back, uncertainty clouding his alien eyes. "Do you want me to stop?"

Loki licked his lips, tasting Thor on them. "Let's see how quiet we can be," he said, and reached up to repay his husband's kiss with interest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thrúd is the name of Thor's daughter by Sif. Since we're playing with gender, and all.
> 
> Mímir in the myths is the jötunn who took Óðinn's eye in exchange for wisdom. I suspect the Mímir in this fic was named after the more famous Mímir; the simple fact is I was running out of names :P


	18. Chapter 18

The Forge was an imposing block on the eastern edge of Útgard. To the unknowing, it was simply a castle. To the citizens of Útgard, and those high criminals who had come to discover its untender mercies, it was a relic of the Tribal Wars--and the severest prison on Jötunheim. _It'll either melt you down to slag or beat you out until you cut straight,_ the underworld was fond of saying. _Better not to find out which._

Moreover, it was the seat of the Eldjötunn army, for the walls of the Forge were stone, not ice, and would not melt from the heat of their bodies. 

Loki and Thor pored over the maps Mímir's resistance cell had provided, and they discovered that it was not just the Forge's reputation that was formidable. It was defended enough to repel an army, and since its refit into a prison, would do as well to contain one. 

"You see our difficulty," Mímir said wryly.

Loki said nothing; it was Thor who said, "You said these bars are forged from uru?"

Mímir nodded. "Alike in kind to your Foe-Crusher."

Thor ran a hand over Mjölnir, hung unobtrusively from his belt. Every one of the hrímthursar present watched as he did.

"Then that will not be our way in," he said, oblivious to the tension. "Perhaps here, though the sewer?"

"Mercifully, that is too small even for us," Loki said. His skin prickled from the eyes that watched him. "But perhaps--"

They planned all through the day and long into the night. Once more they made love in the darkness of a stranger's guest room, desperate and hushed. Thor thrust into the curve of Loki's body, his face hidden against his neck, and his hands clutched him as though he desired to pull their two bodies into one.

"Shh," Loki soothed, despite the tremulous fear in his own heart. He brushed through Thor's tangled, cornsilk hair. "Shh. It will be over soon."

And indeed, Thor spilled soon after, his seed planting an ember in Loki's belly. He wondered for half a moment if the ground he offered was too frozen to bear Asgardian fruit, but he pushed the thought aside. He gently urged Thor's face up. "We will succeed," he said.

Thor nodded, his eyes cast down. "I had not thought, years ago, that I would ever turn to a jötunn for solace. That I would depend on one utterly for my survival."

Loki replied, though the words were difficult to say, "I had not thought, years ago, that I would ever shield an ás from harm."

"Then it would seem, despite our best intentions, we have changed one another," Thor said, the ghost of a smile in his voice.

"It would seem."

They slept, and in the predawn light of their third day in Útgard, they rose to prepare. The rebels were well-equipped, funded as they were by the richest coffers left untouched in Jötunheim, and the logistics were easily met. The morale of their teams was rather less easy to mend, for while the Eldjötnar were clear aggressors, it was no easier to contemplate attacking them than it had been before.

"'Twill come when brother fights brother," Loki heard one superstitious youth whisper to another. "If that isn't now, then when is it?"

"Go on," his friend had replied, masking his own fear. "Ask the Völva himself, when you get yourself killed from sheer dumb stupidity."

The plan began like this: in the early hours of the morning, before the citizens of Útgard woke to begin their parody of a normal day, a shipment of wine pulled into Mímir's courtyard. This shipment had been expected for many months; it was the finest icewine the garrison could afford, shipped overland from the pole by special request.

It just so happened the caravan master was Mímir's nephew, Gunnlöd, and none other than he whom Thor and Loki had passed on the road.

His brow lifted when they stepped out to meet him. "And here I thought you were going north," he said.

"And I thought you were naught but a humble merchant," Loki replied with a smirk.

Gunnlöd snorted. "If we're to argue degree of deception, I'm sure I will win." He nodded stiffly at Thor. "Angrboda. My apologies for my words, on the road."

Thor held up a staying hand. "They were meant in goodwill. I took no offense."

Gunnlöd's face gave little sign of his surprise, but his body went slack in a way that Loki could not miss. "Well and so. It seems Asgard's Prince is not the man he was."

"We are none of us the men we were," Loki said. "Now, if we might get down to business?"

"Ah, of course. Behold, goodfolk, the finest wine that Thrymheim can offer." Gunnlöd cracked the seal on a jar and showed them--nothing. The jar was empty. “I had thought to smuggle banned goods into the prison, but smuggling princes will do just as well.”

The jar was as tall as Loki's chest, hard earthenware. He ran his fingers around the underside of the rim, and he felt hundreds of tiny holes, painstakingly drilled through the ceramic. They were nigh invisible, and to an eldjötunn, whose eyesight would be far less keen in the gloom of Jötunheim, completely undetectable. 

"I had not thought it would be so small," Thor said into the silence.

Loki pulled him aside. "If you would be so kind as to excuse us," he said to the assembled jötunns. "We have a matter to discuss."

The tapestry room was empty of all save the ancestors’ images hung in their woven bowers. Loki took Thor's hands in his own and met his gaze. "What is it about small spaces that you find hard to bear?" he asked.

Thor swallowed. "It is foolish."

"No more so than any other baseless fear. I abhor small crawling insects; truly, Asgard has been a trial for that alone, for they breed in the warmth in a way I have never seen." He squeezes Thor's fingers. "Tell me."

"There was a time when I was a child," Thor began, his words halting and his cheeks flushed. "Fandral goaded me into climbing into one of my mother's wool chests, to see if I could. I could, but just barely. When I had wedged myself in, he threw down the lid and ran away. It was to scare me, I think; repayment for something I had done. I cannot remember what it was, anymore. But he did not realize the lid would lock when closed, or that it could not be opened from the inside." Thor gave a feeble smile. "What need is there, to open a chest from inside?" His smile vanished. "I was trapped for a good half the day, until one of my mother's ladies heard me screaming and let me out. I felt sure I was suffocating."

It would be well more than half the day that they would be trapped in the jars. Loki thought he understood, now, a little better Thor's reluctance to go with this plan until every other option had been exhausted. He thought for a time. "There may be a way I can make it bearable," he said. "But it is _seiðr_."

"Anything," Thor said quickly. "I have trusted you this far, I can trust you a little further."

Loki inclined his head. "Then let us finish our preparations."

He led them back out to the courtyard, and Thor climbed into the wine jar. It was large enough to hold week's supply for a small household, and plenty large enough for an ás when empty. He looked up at Loki, his apprehension masked, and before they lowered the lid in place Loki whispered a spell in place. "It will keep the air cool and fresh," he said. Thor merely nodded, his lips pressed tight.

Then he climbed into the second jar. "I wish you good fortune," the caravan master said. "If the plan goes well, we will not see each other again. So I say now, luck to you, little prince."

"My thanks," Loki said in reply, and then the lid was placed and sealed down.

It was small and close inside. The shape of the vessel did not lend itself to kneeling, or sitting; Loki found himself in an awkward, fetal half-squat, his feet jostling for space in the narrow bottom. He heard two sharp taps against the side, and gave two of his own in return. Then the jar was lifted. He braced himself against the uncertain movement; voices filtered through the ceramic, but not well enough for him to make out the words. His jar was settled down; that, then, would be the caravan master's sled. And that bump beside him, surely that was Thor's jar settled beside him. He tried to peer through the holes drilled in the sides, but his horns pressed against the lid, keeping him from their level. He resigned himself to blindness. He waited as a dozen more jars were piled on after them, and then with a harsh "hup!" to the wolves, they were off.

They jolted along the icy streets for what seemed hours. Loki heard the muffled snarls and yips of wolves, the jangling of a hundred harness bells ringing the morning clamor of merchants coming to market. There would be a festival in Útgard, tonight, and there were many more people about than usual. It was an easy, if boring ride--until the sled tilted sharply, and Loki had to brace himself against the inside of the jar.

They were going uphill. The only hill this steep along the route they had chosen was the hill up to the Forge itself. He swallowed his apprehension and settled into the new movement. He hoped Thor was alright; the air inside his own jar was getting warmer, even by his picky standards.

Up the endless switchbacks to the bluff on which the Forge sat; Loki started to grow queasy from the constant swaying. He shapeshifted away his horns in a fit of desperation and pressed his eyes to the air holes, hoping for something, anything, to see; he got a blurry impression of rolling land falling away. It was enough. He stared outward, and his stomach settled.

The sled came to a clanking, reluctant stop. There was silence, and then voices--official-sounding voices, barking out orders in sibilant Eldjötunn accents. Loki closed his eyes against a surge of fear.

They would find them, or they would not. There was no point worrying about something he could not change.

Then he heard a tapping sound. It was distant and solid-sounding. There, another, as of wood against--

As of wood against an earthenware jar of wine.

Loki nearly swallowed his tongue. They had considered every possibility but that the guards would check to see if the wares were what they seemed. He summoned his _seiðr_ and wrought a desperate spell over his jar; from the outside, it would sound like a jar filled with liquid. Then he sought along the waves of energy and found the jar that, like his, was full of something other than wine. He wrapped a spell around that one as well, though he had no way of warning Thor. He prayed to the Foremothers that Thor would keep his calm.

He curled in around himself as the taps grew nearer, his nerves ratcheting tighter with each new strike. When the tap against his own jar came, he nearly whimpered. It was the mercy of the Norns alone that kept him silent. The beat between his and the next tap seemed to stretch into eternity, until finally:

_thock_

And then--

_thock_

They hadn't even changed their beat. Loki let out a shaky breath, and propped himself against the side of the jar with shaky arms. He kept the twists of magic intact even after the sled began moving, and added in a few other illusions: when they were moved, they would be weighted as jars of wine were weighted, and they would slosh as though full of liquid.

Another sharp word from the guards and they stopped. Loki kept his eyes closed. _If I can't see them, they can't see me_ , his mind whispered absurdly. He thought the reek of his own fear would rise up and choke him; he couldn't imagine how much worse it must be for Thor.

Scraping noises. They were moving the jars, lifting them down into the wine cellars. They were almost there. Only a few more hours until they could risk creeping out.

Only a few hours. Only until sunset. He ignored the cramp in his thigh and thought of happier things, of hunting foxes for his adulthood ceremony--the first time he had ever felt a hrímthurs in truth. The first time he bedded Skadi. Smearing porridge on his face with Hoder, only for the Allfather to come in, take a single glance, then walk promptly out. Watching Thor turn red as an apple from the force of his laughter. He steadied his breathing, and braced himself when his jar was lifted up, then lowered down into the cellar. Three more jars followed, then the boom of the lid as it was lowered. He sagged as much as he was able.

"By the Tree I am never doing this again," he muttered to himself.

"Loki?" 

He nearly jumped out of his skin. "Thor?"

"Aye." His voice was close, perhaps in the jar beside his. Loki mashed his face against the jar, but he could see nothing through the holes. The cellar was dark.

"How are you faring?"

There was a pause. "As well as can be expected." There was another, longer pause, then: "The spell helps."

Loki spun a new spell, then said, "The second sun has just risen."

Thor gave a quiet groan. "Please don't."

"I can tell you a story, if it will help."

"I am willing to try anything."

Loki mustered his thoughts. It had been a long time, since he had thought of the stories of Jötunheim.

"There was a time, so Grandmother says, when there was naught but ice and fire. The ice came from a place called Niflheim, and rose from a well called Hergelmir, from whence twelve rivers found their source. The place of fire was called Múspelheim, and the sparks rose high and cast all in a red, comfortless glow.

"As time awoke and drew itself forth, the heat of Múspelheim melted the ice of Niflheim, until there arose between them a place of mist and void; this place was called Ginnungagap. And as time pressed forth, and the rime melted beneath the sparks, there rose from the mist a mighty cow named Audumla.

"Now, Audumla was thirsty, and she licked at the ice. She licked so long and so deeply that there was revealed the craggy brow of a jötunn. This jötunn was asleep, and blue as the ice he was born from. He has many names: Aurgelmir, and Brimir, and Bláinn; but we know him best as Ymir, and we count him our progenitor.

"Ymir slept, but he also drank from Audumla's udders, for they were full of milk. And in time, he grew heavy with child and bore his son, Thrudgelmir. And Thrudgelmir had a son, who was named Bergelmir. Other creatures were born of the ice, of course; vile creatures, maggot pale, who feasted in the sores of the sleeping Ymir's back. Bergelmir rose up and slew his grandfather, and the rivers of Ymir's blood drowned these creatures, all but three, who were named Odin, Vili, and Ve. These three escaped, along with their wives, and in time came to sire the Æsir--"

"That's not true!" Thor cut through Loki's recitation. "It was Odin, Vili, and Ve who came first, and they slew Bláinn, for he birthed horrible creatures from his armpits and the soles of his feet! It was Odin who washed Bergelmir away!"

Loki sniffed. "That is what the Æsir say. It's not my fault the Jötunns tell the truth of it."

He could almost hear the way Thor drew himself up in indignation. He pictured it: his righteous husband, crammed into a jar scarcely larger than he was, red in the face and restraining himself by the slenderest margins from bursting his way free and destroying their cover. The tirade, when it came, was in a hushed, furious whisper.

Loki smirked to himself. At least now he wasn't thinking of how small the jar was.

***

Loki was running low on stories when the suns finally set, and Thor was running low on endurance. When he judged the time was right--the guard shift changed at sunset, which meant half an hour of distraction on either side--he cracked the seal on his jar and crawled out, his joints and ligaments popping in protest. He held in a groan of relief by the slimmest margin. It was cool, in the cellar; it had been dug into the permafrost, and a layer of rime crawled up the walls. Loki looked around. Racks of bottles stood in tidy rows, and in the furthest reaches, tucked against the walls, he made out the rounded hulks of massive casks, hewn from stone and ice. He had not appreciated the how stifling the air inside the jar had grown until his skin touched the fresh air beyond. He shivered despite himself, and drew his _hrímskjöld_ to the fore.

Thor was a huddled in as small a lump as he could manage, and when Loki cracked the lid he clambered out so quickly the jar almost fell over. Loki righted the jar and politely ignored him as he took deep, rib-cracking breaths. He scanned the cellar again, and this time he found the door, tucked behind stacked boxes of tumblers.

"The kitchen should be that way," he said. They stepped lightly, ears open for any and all sounds that might herald an oncoming guard. Loki paused short of the door, then turned back to Thor. "Take my hand," he said.

Thor frowned at him. "Why?"

"Just take it!"

He did. His palm was dry and warm against his, callused along the pads from wielding Mjölnir. Loki whispered a cantrip, and the light around them began to bend until they were indistinguishable from the mead rack behind them. The world faded, the color sucked from it, until it was dry and warped in their sight.

"What did you do?" Thor asked.

"As long as you hold my hand, no guard can see you," Loki whispered back.

He felt Thor's scowl against his back. "You could have said as much."

"I just did." He ignored Thor's exasperated huff and led the way out the door.

They made their way through the service corridors, pressing up against the walls when servants passed by too closely. Most were hrímthursar, and all of them had a bitter, pinched look about their expressions. Thor's palm grew sweaty in his own; Loki fought the urge to let go and wipe his hand off on his kilt. His heart was in his throat, beating apace; shouts arose from behind, and he froze, unable to move forward until he felt the warmth of Thor's free hand against his arm.

"It's just a game," he whispered. "They're gambling, we haven't been discovered."

Crossing of the bailey tested his nerves to the limit. A party of eldjötnar was leaving for the city, and their wolves snapped as much at their mushers as each other. The ice had melted beneath the terrible heat of them, and their warming charms further made slush of the ground. Loki stepped carefully. The spell would keep them from being seen, but it did nothing for the footprints they left behind.

A wolf snapped at the air before them, its nostrils flaring; Thor startled back and nearly lost his footing. Loki righted him before he made a telling body print against the slush. He readied a charm, but the wolf's musher took better hold of its harness and dragged it back in line. His fingers had nearly lost sensation, they were gripping Thor's so hard. He wove them through the press, tossing caution to the wind, and by the time they reached the far wall they were both panting as though they had run a mile.

"The cells for political prisoners are on the fourth floor of the keep," he said, and he felt more than heard Thor's nod. They picked their way up the narrow stairs that climbed the outside of the keep, and were blessed by the Norns that no one else was upon them.

The keep was empty but for a skeleton guard; tonight was the first of many ice festivals; a minor affair, but a novelty to bored eldjötunns. Loki hugged the walls, his skin prickling from the residual heat baking out of the stone. He could not imagine the furnace they must become, when full of elding charms. He pitied the servants. 

"Through here," Thor mentioned, drawing Loki from his discomfort. "This stairway."

Loki peered up it. He could not see far; it was a spiral stair: narrow, steep, and hidden. There would be no hiding from others on this stair, and for that it was a perfect defense. Loki felt his blood begin to race. "Well," he said. "We may as well start climbing."

Tension spilled through him with each step. It buoyed him up, as much as the stairs did; the thrill of a gamble. The pall of uncertainty, spicing the dish. He practically ran up the stairs, Thor hot on his heels, daring any and all to take the stairs just so he could see what would happen.

Nothing did. They found themselves in the upper corridor, the fourth by his reckoning, without having seen another jötunn, whether frost or fire. Loki's wild excitement withered. They should have encountered someone by now, if his mother was here.

There was a bank of doors along the inner wall, solid but for tiny, barred windows higher than Loki's head. He ground his teeth. Of course the prison cells would be larger than he was; everything else was. He let go of Thor's hand, and Thor stiffened as the world reasserted itself into full, normally-shaped color. "I need to stand on your shoulders," Loki said.

"What!"

"Oh, for--" Loki flung up an arm, pointing. "Can you see through those windows?"

Thor remained stubbornly unmoved. "Then why can't I stand on yours?"

Loki inhaled deeply, struggling for calm. "One: you are far heavier than I am. I would crumple. Two: my mother would as soon pepper your eyes with ice needles than trust you, and that's saying nothing of my brothers. They haven't benefitted from the irritant of your presence for the past two years."

Thor's face grew red. "If that's the way of it, then you can stand on your own shoulders!"

"Believe me, I'd love to, but sadly I'm not tall enough!"

"Laufey isn't here," a third voice said, breaking into their argument. Loki had a fistful of ice in hand a heartbeat after, and Thor was brandishing Mjölnir.

It was a servant. A hrímthursar servant, standing in the doorway at the far end of the corridor, a mop still in his white-knuckled grip.

Loki stifled his ice, and pressed Mjölnir down when Thor did not follow suit. "We're here to rescue him," Loki said. "What have you to say to that?"

The servant examined Thor uneasily, but he spoke to Loki, and his voice was certain. "I say that the First Scion and his heirs are in the common cells, on the west side of the bailey." His lips twisted. "They wanted to make an example of him."

Loki hissed. "They dare!" 

"If I were a conqueror, I would do the same," the servant shrugged. "But know that there are more ears, in that part of the keep."

It was Thor who spoke then, through the hissing Loki couldn't seem to keep down. "Thank you," he said. "What is your name, that I can tell the First Scion who gave him aid?"

"I seek no recompense."

"Your name," Loki snapped.

The servant looked over him, and over the Crown-Prince of Asgard. "Thjalfi," he said. "Son of Hugi."

"You have our thanks, Thjalfi Hugason," Thor said.

Thjalfi gave them another lingering look, then disappeared back into the room.

"Time to go," Loki said, then grabbed Thor's hand. The world warped and drained of color around them, and then he was dragging Thor back down the staircase.

The west wall of the keep. At least they wouldn't have to cross the bailey again.

"Can you mask four people at once?" Thor whispered.

Loki shook his head. "No."

"Then we have no way of getting them through the bailey unseen."

Loki said nothing. It was a setback, to be sure. Had they been in the keep, they would have been a mere corridor away from a sizable window, and Loki could cushion a person's fall, if it was done one at a time. They had not even considered that the Eldjötnar might place the King in a commoner's cell. It changed everything.

By the time they emerged from the keep the festival party had seen themselves off, and the bailey was silent but for the voices of the guard atop the parapets and the clatter of the kitchens across the yard. Loki tugged Thor up the steps to the guard post.

The only way in or out of the commoner's block was through the guard post, little more than a cubicle cantilevered out over the stairs. Political prisoners had the privilege of proximity to the keep, which was guard enough; the commoners, however, being more numerous and less exalted, were crammed into filthy cells in the coldest, darkest wing of the fort. A frost giant could still catch a chill, if it were cold enough. Loki felt Thor shiver, and prayed their breath was not visible past their cocoon of bent light.

There was a guard in the tiny checkpoint. In fact, there were three, blazing red and orange from a distance. Long icicles had melted down the eves, trailing a frozen waterfall down the side of the stairs. A great soup of melted water stewed below, slowly growing as drops of warm water trickled off the ice. Their footing grew treacherous and slick. They clambered up the oversized stairs, and Loki ran through their options.

Of a preference, they could get through the guard post unnoticed, on account of their small size and his spellwork. Alternately, they could kill the guards and pray they found Loki's family before reinforcements trapped them in.

He felt his mind settle into silence as they broached the threshold of the post. A furnace blast of heat threatened to boil his eyeballs from his skull, and all his plans and plots vanished, replaced with a hyper-awareness of their surroundings. All three guards were at their ease, laughing in the Elding tongue as they rolled dice. Loki followed bits and pieces; they were bargaining chores. Their body language remained unchanged, their white-glowing eyes fixed on each other, not the intruders stepping boldly through their domain. The heat charm threw their horned, reptilian shadows looming across the walls. Loki was so attuned that he felt Thor's eyes boring into his back; Thor's steps were his own. They picked their way around the edges of the room, crouching beneath the worktable. The entrance to the main cell block was on the side wall. It was secured by a metal gate, but as Loki slipped up to it, he thought he might be able to squeeze between the bars.

He could, with room to spare. Thor followed, his face blank with the same intensity Loki felt in himself.

Thor glanced down one corridor. Loki took his cue and peered down the other. They were in an antechamber of sorts; gates similar to the ones they had just slipped through barred their way at regular intervals in either direction, and Loki knew from their planning at Mímir's hearth that every one of those gates was made from uru. They would not be able to break them.

Not that it was a great barrier to a sorcerer of any consequence. They simply had to pick a direction. He slipped through the bars, dragging Thor after, and went up to the first cell. A scruffy-looking hrímthurs looked up when Loki dispersed the spell, and he could tell from the clarity in his eyes that he was a recent inmate.

"Do you know which way the First Scion was taken?" he said as loudly as he dared.

The jötunn squinted at him. "You're the Little Prince," he said, his expression clearing. He looked to Thor. "And you're--"

A heartbeat later and the jötunn was pressed against the far side of the cell. "I'm not tellin' you nothin'," he said. "Not to the Angrboda."

Loki shared a glance with Thor. "Not even to save your rightful liege?"

The jötunn nodded to Mjölnir, hanging from Thor's belt. "That's the Foe-Crusher, it is. All I know, you'll be killing Laufey, not saving him. He married you off to the white devils, after all." 

Loki rested his forehead against the bars. They were unspeakably cold against his skin. "Is there nothing I can do to convince you."

"Here," Thor said unexpectedly, and pulled Mjölnir from his belt. The jötunn's eyes widened comically, and he cringed against the back wall, but Thor merely put the hammer gently to the floor. "I will leave it here, on my honor as Prince of Asgard." He straightened. "Will you tell us, is Laufey down this hall or the other?"

"This side," another voice called out from the next cell down. "Down at the end. Him and his sons each got tossed into the luxury cells, the lucky bastards." Muted laughter met these words. "Only the finest for offworlder whores." Loki's blood began to boil, and ice flowed down to cover his fists.

"You gonna kill me, Laufeyjarson? One of your own kind?"

"It won't be the first time," Loki hissed. Bitter memories blurred up, and he raised his fist.

"Loki." Red cloth swaddled his arm, damping the ice, and Loki came back to himself. Thor unwrapped his cape and let it drop. He nodded pointedly to the next gate. Loki drew himself up and ignored the jeering inmates.

Their heckling was quietly done, not loud enough to rouse the guards. That alone spoke of their loyalties. Loki drove their words from his mind and thrust a wedge of ice into the lock of gate, instead. It poured and molded around the tumblers, and with a twist, the lock came open. Loki handed it to Thor. "Better if we can leave the doors open," he said. "Help me lift it."

Thor placed him on the other side, and together they lifted it in its hinges so it wouldn't squeal and swung it ajar.

One down, twelve more to go.

The next guard change was in four turns of the hourglass, about two hours. It should be enough. Loki broke through lock after lock, and muffled the shrieking hinges if a gate wouldn't cooperate. Thor was a calm shadow at his side, and Loki found himself drawing on his bedrock steadiness to soothe his tension. Ten gates to go, now.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

By the sixth gate, Loki had to force Thor back. "Honestly," he snapped, rubbing at Thor's blotchy, cold-nipped hands. "Do you want to lose them?" He wrapped Thor's cape around them--an awkward solution, but better than letting the idiot carry on and lose his hands altogether. "I'm a frost giant, you halfwit. I can survive the open tundra with nothing but a knife and good feelings. Your flimsy skin barely tolerates a cool summer breeze. What possessed you to think you could touch uncovered, freezing metal without consequence?" There was an odd smile on Thor's face, and he didn't say a word as Loki fussed over him. Loki didn't have the time to figure it out; time was pressing.

They found Helblindi past the eighth gate. He sat in the same kilt as the rest of the inmates, his armbands and badges of office stripped away, and his hair grown out into an untidy mop. His head jerked up when he heard the lock snap, and Loki savored how his eyes widened. "Loki?" 

"Shh," he said. "If you couldn't tell, we're getting you out."

Helblindi grabbed the cell bars. "How many are with you?"

Loki exchanged a look with Thor. "We are the only ones we could get in," he said.

"But..." Helblindi glanced between them, his eyes lingering especially on Thor before returning to Loki. "But how are we to get back out?"

"I'm still working on that," Loki said, and wedged ice into the lock of his cell. "For now, I'll settle for getting you out of these cages."

The lock gave, and Helblindi stepped out with the air of a man being given an impossible gift.

"Mother is there, is he not?" Loki pointed to the next cell over.

"Further, I think," Helblindi said. "They kept us separated by several empty cells so we couldn't talk." His face grew grave. "I don't think Mother's doing well, Loki. He was shot in the side by an elding dart when they took over."

Loki's hands hitched over the latest lock. He scowled and wrenched the mechanism open. "We can only wait and see," he said, and dragged the gate open on the force of his mixed feelings alone. Thor hung back, and Loki heard Helblindi say to him,

"I had not thought Odin's son would help jötunns."

Thor replied, "I have come to change the way I see my spouse's kin."

Helblindi's reply, if there was one, was lost in the screech of angry hinges. All of them froze for a single, hung moment, the sound seeming to echo down the hall like a damning howl. Loki pulled his hands away from the gate.

"Damn. _Damn._ "

"Shh," Thor said, holding out a hand. "They may not have heard."

Loki bit down on his tongue and listened, as Thor was, for the sound of mustering guards. The conversation in the guard post was muted, this far down the cell block, but it was enough to hear how it paused, and the scrape of metal against stone.

"I'll distract them," Thor said, throwing out his hand. "Go."

"There's three of them--"

" _Go,_ " Thor growled as Mjölnir slapped into his palm. He turned and struck the gate with the hammer, sending up a colossal ringing as the unstoppable force met its match. "Valhalla!" he roared. "Valhalla I am coming!"

Helblindi threw down his _hrímskjöld_ over his fists, and Loki rammed the next lock open. There. His mother, Laufey, First Scion of Jötunheim. He was wasted, lying prostrate on the floor, the wound in his side a festering crevasse of necrosis.

"I'll need you to carry him," Loki said to Helblindi. "Býleist is here, too?"

"No, Mother sent him to his father's tribe months ago. Well before Múspelheim attacked."

"Good." He cracked the lock on his mother's cell, and Laufey lifted his head to look.

"Fárbauti?" he said weakly, and Loki's pounding heart dropped straight down.

"No, Mother," he said, kneeling at his side. "It's Loki. Helblindi is here, also; we're getting you out." 

"Loki," Laufey said, slumping back to the stone. "Just Loki."

"Oh, well that's nice," Helblindi muttered. "Must be the fever." With that, he took the arm on his mother's good side and hauled him upright, to the tune of Laufey's pained grunt.

"You've said as much yourself, you know," Loki said, holding the gate open for them.

"Remind me to apologize when our survival doesn't depend on your berserker spouse holding off an army of Eldjötunns."

"Oh, I most certainly will." And with that, Loki drew up his _hrímskjöld_ and went to join Thor in the battle. He could see it now, could hear the shouts and hammer clashes, and in a burst of speed he arrived just in time to throw a dart into the kidney of an elding raising his club over Thor's head. He fell with a bellow and a stone-shaking crash.

Thor looked to the fallen jötunn then to Loki. "My thanks," he said.

Loki bared a feral grin. "Are you going to thank me after every time I save your life, or wait until the battle is done so you can tender them in bulk?"

Thor's answering smile was slow, and then he laughed. "Why don't we keep count, and wait to tally our winnings after?"

"As my liege demands." Loki gave a sloping, courtly bow.

Thor nodded down the hall, to the forms of Helblindi and Laufey. "Your family is hale?"

"Mother is rather the worse for wear, but he can still walk. We have a fight ahead of us, do we not?"

"Most likely." Thor led the way out past the three unconscious, bleeding guards, through the obliterated guard post, and scanned the bailey beyond. A bell was ringing, and a contingent of eldjötunns was racing up the steps, halberds at the ready. He grinned darkly. "A mighty fight indeed." He hefted his hammer then turned to Loki. "Will you kiss me for luck, Loki?"

"Only if you will for me."

"Ha! I think we might manage that." And so saying, Thor dragged Loki in for a searing kiss. His beard scratched Loki's chin; the heat of his hand burned his skin. "Strength in battle," he intoned.

Loki spun frost into darts between his fingers. "To win the fight."

Thor went first. He descended the stairs in a rush, bellowing fearsome cries that echoed over the stone parapets until it seemed an army roared with him. His cape billowed bloody behind him, terrible and bright against the darkness of the stone, and Mjölnir shone like a star in his hand. Loki was transfixed, energy surging through his blood as he watched his husband fell a jötunn in a single blow. Then he took in a wider view.

There were ballistae atop the parapets, some set for spears or spiked blocks of ice, but all faced outward. An archer was sprinting up the stairs on the other side of the bailey; Loki could see the stock of his unstrung recurve over his shoulder. Loki didn't stop to hesitate. He lobbed a dart at the elding's back, bolstering its flight with _seiðr_ , and he careened off the side of the wall. Then he saw a jötunn raise a strike that would crush Thor, and he spent another dart into his throat.

Helblindi came up behind him, where he stood in the doorway of the guard post, and looked down upon the chaos below. Loki paid him little mind; he summoned darts and let them fly in a hypnotizing rhythm, and eldings fell about Thor like flies from poisoned honey.

"I had not thought I would see the Angrboda fight and live to tell the tale," Helblindi said, and Loki replied, half in a trance,

"They will not live to." He threw a dart, and in the same motion summoned up a shield around his brother and mother. "Do not stray far from my side," he said, and set forth down the stairs. 

They proceeded thusly: Thor carved a path through the eldjötunn reinforcements, and Loki followed, a needle in the sides of their enemies. No archer made it farther than the top stair before Loki struck him down. A few had hid themselves in the keep, which had slits to fire from, but Loki batted the arrows away with sweeps of his hands, and each barb fell into the foes below.

"To the gate!" Thor bellowed. "We must get to open ground before the Bifröst can take us!"

There were murder holes on the underside of the gatehouse roof. Loki knew this, for he had studied the plans extensively. Behind him, Helblindi had taken a sword and was hacking at the eldings with the arm not wrapped about their mother's waist; before him, Thor was spinning his hammer and laughing as the guardsmen fell in droves. Loki summoned his _seiðr_ , gave a deep shout, and spun himself into the air. When he landed, he pushed toward the gates, and the porticullis buckled. He did it again, pounding his feet into the ice, and the entire gate house shuddered. A third time, and the gates cracked open, the porticullis twisted beneath the force of his magic. He heard Helblindi's cry of shock from a distance, for he was deep in the battle fever.

Thor attacked straight-on, from the front, and drove through his opponents like an avalanche. Loki was a blizzard, creeping up and coming from every direction at once until they could see nothing in the confusion. He felt Thor's teachings grip his mind, control his hand, until they were an unstoppable battle van, ploughing through the eldjötunn front line like a hammer through rotten wood.

The guardsmen never stood a chance. Loki and Thor herded the First and Second Scions of Jötunheim through the ruined gates, leaving the bleeding wreckage of the elding guard behind, and sprinted across the no man's land beyond the walls. 

They were in range of the ballistae, now, and Loki's strength was flagging. "Run," he said to Helblindi and the ashen face of his mother. "That promontory, that is where we will meet the Bifröst. Go." Helblindi nodded, his eyes wide and his words dried away, and lengthened his stride past Loki's ability to keep up with. Thor pulled even with him, the glitter of adrenaline deep in his eyes.

"A pretty little skirmish," he boomed, his cheeks flushed and his fingers white-knuckled about the haft of his hammer. 

Loki gave him a winded smile and jerked his head toward the promontory. "Go stand with them," he said. "I'm going to see if I can't slow them down."

"I find new appreciation for your devilry each day," Thor laughed. He spun his hammer until he was soaring through the star-spangled night. Loki knelt down in the snow and took three deep, steadying breaths. He raised his hands, and--

A bolt caught him in the thigh. He fell back, unable even to scream for the pain of it. It burned, and even as he watched the walls of the Forge washed away into white as the Bifröst descended. He felt the earth tremble when it landed, but his ears were ringing, and his breath wouldn't come. He tried to move, tried to run and meet it, but pain shrieked through his body. The light faded, leaving Loki behind in the heart of his enemy-held homeland. Terror spilled through him. His body screamed; he screamed back at it, and through the pain, and forced himself upright.

An elding dart. The same as caught his mother. He felt certain his leg was being eaten away by pure acid. He scrabbled through the snow, toward the promontory: the nearest level ground on the edge of the cliff the Forge sat built into. He heard shouts behind him; he gritted his teeth and drove himself onward, and the noises that forced themselves from his mouth were guttural, the sounds of an animal caught in a trap.

Heimdall would send the Bridge again, if Loki were in a place he could send it. Loki sprawled across the scorched knotwork scar in the ice, and he saw the wormhole begin to rain light to meet him--but then a massive hand dragged him off the landing point, and the light dissipated. He felt the heat of eldjötnar skin; he heard their sibilant accent. Then he felt the blow of a club against the back of his skull, and he knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "'Twill come when brother fights brother" is taken from the _Völuspá_ , the Norse eschatological poem. Óðinn, having raised the spirit of a wise woman, or Völva, from the dead, forces her to prophesy Ragnarök. The full verse I paraphrased goes:
> 
> "Brothers shall fight | and fell each other,  
> And sisters' sons | shall kinship stain;  
> Hard is it on earth, | with mighty whoredom;  
> Axe-time, sword-time, | shields are sundered,  
> Wind-time, wolf-time, | ere the world falls;  
> Nor ever shall men | each other spare."
> 
> Uru is the fictional metal that Mjölnir is supposedly forged from, according to the comics. It's super duper strong.
> 
> I pictured the Tower of London when writing the Forge, if that helps.


	19. Chapter 19

Heimdall's summons found Sif with the Warriors Three at weapons training. All four stiffened at the guard's words-- _Lady Sif, the Gatekeeper commands your presence_ \--and all four were stunned into silence. The echoes of their strikes faded from the practice courtyard. Volstagg swallowed audibly.

"I don't suppose he would care about that one moment of weakness on Álfheim?"

Hogun game him an incredulous look.

"I don't think this is about us," Sif said, hefting her glaive. She looked to the others, but their faces were blank with shock. "We've done nothing, and I've done nothing personal to warrant my half-brother's attention. No, this is about Thor and Loki's disappearance. I'm sure of it."

A new silence fell over her comrades, one that was speculative rather than terrified. "This isn't the first time they've vanished for weeks at a time," Fandral said cautiously.

Sif shook her head. "Thor never left Asgard, the last time. We heard word from him regularly. No, I think he needs our help. I think the frost giant finally stabbed him in the back, and Heimdall needs us to come to Thor's aid."

Her compatriots listened, and their hands tightened on their weapons.

"And if you are wrong?" Hogun asked. "If it is not Loki?"

Sif stared at him incredulously. "Who else could it be?"

Fandral broke away first, sheathing his sword and making for the benches. "We won't find out what it is by dithering here," he said, swinging his cape up around his shoulders. "We may as well dither on the way, if we're so insistent on dithering at all."

Sif rose. She wore her training armor, scuffed and old, but serviceable. She glanced to the others; they, too, were ready for any action. She nodded. "Then let’s find out what the Gatekeeper wants of us."

She led the procession through the palace side corridors and out the Guard's entrance. The streets were quiet; it was a hot summer afternoon, and decent folk were either napping or working away from the heat. Sif traced a path beneath overhangs and awnings as much as possible, ignoring the determined hawkers that lingered beneath the midday sun. The clank of her battle brothers behind her bolstered her confidence.

She had told Loki Laufeyjarson that when he betrayed Thor, she would kill him. She would follow through on that promise today.

Her fervor wavered when they reached the City Gates. A group of healers stood at the ready, as well as one of the guard stationed at Heimdall's cottage. He took in the Warriors and Sif without word, then turned on his heel and led them down the Causeway.

It was cheerful Fandral who drew the healers out. "Do you know why you were summoned?" he asked.

The lead healer, a formidable yet kindly woman named Eir, gave him a gentle, understanding glance. "To heal someone, I would imagine."

Sif squashed her impatience. "I meant if you had any idea who."

Eir ran her eyes over her. “We'll find out soon enough."

They passed the rest of the walk in silence, for which Sif was grateful. It was hard to maintain battle readiness over chitchat about the weather. The guard walked with a purpose, and they followed at an equally brisk clip, even Volstagg, whose toe was acting up once again. Sif ignored the trail of sweat trickling down her back, under her armor.

When they finally stepped into the cool shadows of the Observatory, her stride hitched. The Allfather was waiting in full battle armor, and he looked positively furious. He raked his single eye over their party, and Sif felt herself quailing beneath the bitter violence that eye promised. She made obeisance and looked desperately to Heimdall, who stood upon the activation plinth, sword at the ready. Her half-brother, however, paid her no mind; the whole of his attention was fixed on the spangled stars beyond the Observatory window.

No sooner had their party arranged themselves about the plinth and receiving platform than Heimdall plunged his sword into the workings of the Bifröst. It roared to life, spinning about them with all the fury of a captured wormhole, and in a rush of solar wind spat out the very last people Sif would have ever suspected to see together: the king and first prince of Jötunheim, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Thor, who wore a simple woolen tunic in place of his armor, and who looked more than a little bitten by the cold.

Had they been on Jötunheim this whole time? And where was--

"Loki!" Thor bellowed, beside himself with some extreme of emotion. He rounded on Heimdall. "Send me back!"

"Absolutely not!" the Allfather snapped, and Thor seemed to come back to himself.

But not long enough to gain sense. "Loki is injured," Thor said, his voice trembling with post-battle reaction. "We left him there--"

“Enough!” Allfather Odin’s face contorted, then smoothed. "If Heimdall sees an opportunity, then he will take him. But you are not going back." He turned his attention to the two frost giants, one of whom--King Laufey, Sif reminded herself--was leaning heavily on the other, his eldest son.

"You are welcome to Asgard," the Allfather said, sounding as though a welcome was the last thing he had in mind.

"We seek asylum," the prince said. Sif couldn't remember his name; Hel-something. He looked shell-shocked and weary.

Allfather Odin glared at him for a moment, before snapping, "It is granted. Far be it from me to countermand the promises of my son." This last he said to Thor, with an acerbic lash.

Thor's hands clenched--one of them about the bloodied haft of Mjölnir--but he was not so far gone that he would directly gainsay his father's command. He fell back, his eyes wide in a pale, sunken-cheeked face, and Sif wondered he must have suffered to be so disconnected. He seemed not even to notice his closest friends.

Sif scowled. It was some glamor of the frost giant's.

At the Allfather's gesture, Eir and her squadron of healers rose up to take the King of Jötunheim, and when he parted from his son's side Sif couldn't mask her gasp of shock. She knew those wounds: open, suppurant sores, weeping pus and ringed with the black of dead tissue; yes, she recognized the bite of elding darts. If this is what befell Loki's family, Sif suddenly couldn't blame him for dragging Thor through the icy blazes of Náströnd to rescue them. The healers bundled him onto a gurney just barely large enough to support him, and pulled the first prince after. Sif turned back to the remaining occupants. 

Long seconds passed, where Thor's breathing remained fast and nervous; Heimdall watched like a cat stalking prey. He lowered the sword--the Observatory began to spin, and light lanced out into the darkness of the Void--but then he tore it back, breaking the connection before it could have time to close the circuit. Heimdall's eyes were wide, his hands locked about the hilt. "I cannot take him," he said, and Thor's knees threatened to buckle beneath him.

"Father, please--"

"Silence!" the Allfather seemed to have forgotten Sif was there, and she scarcely dared breathe, lest he evict her. She would stand by Thor, even if it meant keeping silent.

Odin, however, was turning red in the face. "Do you realize what you have done? You have, with that--that _concubine_ , destroyed every inch of neutrality Asgard possessed!"

"Asgard isn't neutral!" Thor bellowed right back. "I'm married to a Jötunn prince, that's not neutrality!"

"It's not a marriage! It's concubinage! He is not your equal!"

Thor took three steps forward, putting himself toe-to-toe with his father. "We fought beside each other in battle, and slept back-to-back in enemy-held territory," he hissed. "We saved each other's lives. He is my equal in all the ways that count! Send me back!"

The Allfather stilled, staring at his son. "Heimdall," he barked. "Where is the frost giant now?"

Her brother's voice, deep as cracking ice, startled Sif when he spoke. "Loki Laufeyjarson has been taken into the Forge of Jötunheim. They broke his hands, first."

Thor clenched his jaw so hard Sif could hear his teeth grate. "Send me--"

"I said enough!" Odin turned on his son. "It is plain to see that you cannot be trusted with matters of political delicacy. You are a selfish child, Thor, and no son of mine until you prove yourself worthy!" He struck out his beckoning hand, and Mjölnir flew from Thor's grasp into his own. Thor's expression was stunned and confused; Sif felt gooseflesh ran down her arms at the Allfather's words.

"Thor, you have no family. You have no birthright. You are not my son, for you are not worthy of it. Until such time as you learn your place, I strip you of your titles and of your power." As he spoke, he raised his hand, holding it palm out to his son as though to push him away. Thor jerked, as though held fast in a massive, punishing grip. "May the Norns weave your wyrd well.” Then he yanked his hand down, and Thor collapsed to his knees with a groan, then to the floor in a dead faint.

Sif ran to him, and Hogun on his other side, for he was trained as a medic. They checked his pulse, his reflexes; he was unresponsive, but otherwise hale. Sweat stood upon his brow, and a flush stained his cheeks.

"Let's hope he learns the damn lesson," Odin muttered into the spent silence. Sif looked up at him, and to her intense shock, the Allfather stumbled as he turned. Heimdall was at his side in an instant, helping him back to his feet.

But the damage was done. In that moment, Sif had seen the way Odin Allfather's hand trembled, had seen, as though a veil had been drawn from her eyes, the extreme age of Asgard's king. She stood rooted to the ground. Heimdall steered the Allfather toward the door, helping him regain his balance and steadiness, before Odin shook him off and set off down the Causeway on his own power. Heimdall watched him walk for a time, then turned back to Sif.

"He has put off the Odinsleep far too long."

Sif could think of nothing to say. Heimdall was her half-brother, born to Sif's mother Atla from another man, and he was two millennia older than her, to boot. They had little in common but shared blood.

She also knew he would not have summoned her here without reason. With Hogun’s help she turned Thor over onto his back. The solid weight of his body was gone, replaced by a bird-boned fragility; his breathing came fast and shallow. Sif cleared her throat.

"What did he do to Thor?"

"He stripped him of his titles and his power," Heimdall answered. "He will survive, though he will need to rest when he wakes, and nourishment soon after.”

“You did not summon us without reason, Gatekeeper,” Volstagg said. “Why did you wish us to see this?”

Heimdall was silent for a long time, staring out the Observatory window, watching the Norns only knew what. "Loki Laufeyjarson needs your help,” he finally said. “Thor cannot now aid him, and I cannot send you to Jötunheim, the Allfather’s decree. But I am not necessary to operate the Bifröst.”

Sif stared at him, trying to understand. "Didn't you swear an oath of fealty to the Allfather?"

Heimdall inclined his head. "I did. But my first duty is to safeguard Asgard. This duty supersedes any command from any king. I can't see the whole of the picture, but I know the Allfather's actions are not to the benefit of the Realm."

This half-speak and allusion was giving Sif a headache. She speared her brother with as fierce a scowl as she could manage. "What do you want me to do? Speak plainly."

The Gatekeeper smiled, a sheen passing over his golden eyes. "Take care of your friend. He will tell you the rest.”

***

Loki woke to darkness, a splitting headache, and a throbbing, red pain in his hands. A groan pushed at his throat, but he swallowed it back; if he was being watched, far better not to call attention to himself until he understood the lay of the land. He kept his breaths slow and even as he catalogued his hurts.

Head intact, mostly, though he was fair certain a shaft of ice was being driven through the back of his skull. A lingering pool of nausea, worsened by the smell of vomit nearby. Sore ribs; he breathed deeply, but there was no stabbing pain--likely nothing was broken. His back didn't hurt, and his toes wiggled on command. A gnawing ache in his thigh, settled from the bite of the dart and enough to concentrate past.

That left the ache in his hands.

He didn't want to face it, didn't so much as want to think it, but Loki pried his eyes open to slits and peered at his hands. They were swollen in the dim light, the skin feeling tender and taut as a drum. He tried to move one finger, but the white stab of pain that shot up his arm squeezed a gasp from him. He bit down on his tongue to keep worse sounds in.

As he'd suspected. A sorcerer was a powerful foe, after all, but a sorcerer was only as good as his hands. And now, Loki's hands were very, very poor. He let out a soft, shuddering breath.

Time spread like congealing blood. Loki was in a cell, he could tell that much; he was lying on his side, a puddle of cooling vomit before him, and nothing but bare stone around him. Above his head, the tempered gates of the prison block stood stark and silent. The mutterings of the prisoners echoed in his ears.

Thor had gotten his mother out, however. That was what mattered: the line of succession was preserved, and seeking asylum on Asgard. Loki was sure they would get it; far better to support a fellow king-in-exile than set a precedent of refusal.

That was all that mattered. He was nothing. A kin-slayer and a child-killer. He had sown peace between Asgard and Jötunheim, enough to build more; they didn't need him, anymore. He shuddered and fought against the infection of hope pulling at his innards.

A sudden clang of metal against metal shattered the air, and he forced himself not to react.

"[He's awake]," a voice said. An Eldjötunn voice, and Loki trembled despite himself.

Footsteps, and a lingering pause. "[Bring him, then]."

The clink of keys, and the rattling, creaking scrape as the bars were pulled open. They didn't move warily or bother with chaining him. Loki couldn't fault them. They were easily two and a half times his weight, and his only strength--his magic--was useless to him. He couldn't channel without his hands. He cried out as they seized his upper arms; his hands scraped across the concrete, his leg twisted, wringing new pain from his thigh, and shivers of agony rippled through his body.

"[Stand and walk with dignity]," one of them snapped, shaking Loki's arm. Loki hissed, but it wasn't enough to drown out the rest of his words. "[Show a scrap of the pride your people lack]."

Loki told himself it was the washes of pain up his arms that made his chest ache, and the blow to his head that made his eyes prick with tears. He scrabbled his feet underneath him, and he managed a hobbled, hopping shuffle between the overlarge strides of his captors. He was afraid to look at his leg. It felt melted clear to the bone, and pain-dead from trauma. 

They took him down the cell block, and this time the jeers were louder and more gleeful. "Try again next time, princeling!" the prisoners shouted. "Next time you can warm my bed!"

The guard post was a shambles still, though the broken furniture had been cleared away and a fresh heating spell stood in the center. The guard on Loki's right took it and carried it before them as they broke free into the gelid cold of an Útgardian night.

Their hands burned against Loki's skin. Not in the humid, comforting heat of Thor's body, but the prickling burn of skin sitting too close to a bonfire. He tried to pull in his _hrímskjöld_ , but the heat spell flared as he did, and he shivered and burned in turns.

Ahead, the keep hove out of the dark like a shoal in the shadows, its only warning the breakers of steam foaming up the walls from the heat within. The guards did not take him through to the main hall, however, for which Loki was desperately glad; the revelers had surely returned by this point, and the heat inside the Eldjötnar's domain would be intense. Instead, his guards took him aside, through an unassuming door buried into the rock face of the cliff. Prodigious locks bound the inner side. They hauled him past a heavily fortified checkpoint, and down a long, featureless corridor that neither turned nor intersected with any other. At the far end of this corridor, they tied a rag over Loki's eyes, and began a procession of turns so dizzying and labyrinthine that even Loki, despite his broken hands and aching head, could not follow. It finished with a dire creak, as of a long-unused door being hauled open, and a noticeable chilling of the air.

They dragged Loki inside and dumped him, with little care or grace, to the floor. Pebbles crunch beneath his back, and the cold seeped upward into his skin. They pulled the cloth from his face, and he saw that he was in the center of a large cavern. The guards were inattentive; one faced the door, the other fetched, from the clattering of links, what sounded like chains. Loki considered the effort it would take merely to sit up, and cast the thought aside. At least he could pull his _hrímskjöld_ out, now that the guards had pulled away.

He laid unresponsive, staring up at the distant cavern ceiling, as they arranged his limbs to their satisfaction. Myriad stalactites hung above his head; he imagined them breaking from their stony moors. He wondered what it would feel like if one were to pierce him. He wondered if it would kill him straight away, or if he would linger until blood loss did the job.

A distant part of his mind, one not entirely moored to the rest of him, was aware of a tight band of metal closing around his ankle. He saw the red sweep of one of the guards' arms rising, then it fell, and he heard--and felt--a sharp clang as the shackle was bolted down. The blow vibrated through his leg, and he started in surprise.

Then the guard reached for his wrist, and Loki had enough awareness to try and pull away before the guard grabbed his horn and dragged him back over.

"[None of that, or I'll make it worse for you than it needs to be]." He pried Loki's mangled arm back into position, wrapped a manacle around his wrist, and pounded the bolt home. Loki gave a single, strangled yell as the vibrations sang through every broken bone in his hand.

"[Hurry up], the other guard said. "[I want to get out of here]."

His compatriot said nothing for a time, instead positioning the shackle around Loki's other wrist with all the care of an ardent perfectionist. "[Haste will make for an imperfect bond]."

"[He's bound enough. I'm cold]."

Two more strikes of the hammer, and Loki was bound spread-eagled to the floor. He felt frost creep out from his back, from where the _hrímskjöld_ kept him from freezing. He shuddered, all the same.

They left him lying in the silence and darkness, with naught but the fluorescent moss of the cave to keep him company. He pulled against one of the chains, but it was useless. They were beyond his capacity to break. Anxiety and apathy alike gnawed at him, chewing at his nerves like the dragon beneath the Tree. What would come, would come. And he was certain, now, that Thor would come as well, if he could. He hoped he would. He prayed he wouldn't.

"There is a snake on Múspelheim," a voice said from the shadows, and Loki started, his chains clanking. "It lives in the hottest parts of Múspelheim's Anvil. They call it the nídhögg adder, after the Serpent of Náströnd." A figure came out of the shadows, and Loki recognized him for Thjazi, his mother's chief advisor.

Loki's breath caught. "You," he hissed. Of all the people he would have suspected of betraying Jötunheim, it was not this craggy, benign, ancient creature.

"What about me?" Thjazi asked. He walked over to where Loki lay outspread, and he looked down at him the way a researcher might examine a secondary experiment gone awry.

"You-you're in league with the Eldjötnar!"

"Well, yes. Your mother was a traitor to his people, for agreeing to the terms he did; I surely wouldn't stand with kinslayers over my own kin." His eyes glittered.

"He saved us! He got the Casket back from Asgard!" Loki's voice cracked like a stripling, and his cheeks burned despite himself.

Thjazi raised a brow, unimpressed. "Had he renewed ties with Sinmara, we would have found a way to take the Casket from the Bölverkr without this," his lip curled, "shameful match." He stared at Loki with a blank, emotionless expression for a moment, then stepped on, until all but the top of his head was hidden from Loki's sight.

"What's done is done, however. When Sinmara's agents came to Jötunheim, I merely indicated that not all of Laufey's court was pleased with his idiocy."

"You're a traitor to the throne," Loki grated out.

Thjazi paused and looked back at him. "What throne? The one that stands empty in Útgarda-Keep? One cannot be traitor to an empty throne." 

"It is not empty! My mother--"

"Laufey has been deposed, little one; he rules no longer. It is not the exile who is called king, it is he who sits on the throne and wears the crown."

"And Sinmara has given you the crown, has she?"

"No." Thjazi resumed his slow circling. "I have no wish for the throne."

The spitting anger that had settled in Loki's chest guttered. "But... you... why?"

"I forget how young you are, Loki. You are clever, this is true; your accomplishments on Asgard are not the work of a foolish mind. But you are very young." He knelt by Loki's shoulder, a titanic shadow beside Loki's small, fragile form. "Any ruler of Jötunheim, as long as Múspelheim controls the Realm, will be a puppet. Far better for the Eldings to have their way. Whoever they establish will not last long past their leave-taking, and I have no desire for a knife in the back. Far better to stay where I have always been: behind the throne, with my back to the wall."

Loki stared up at him, speechless. The depth of the betrayal, of his own miscalculation, was beyond him. He had never even considered Thjazi for a traitor.

Seemingly satisfied by Loki's stupefied silence, Thjazi stood once more, and resumed his circling. 

"As I was saying. The Eldjötnar say the nídhögg adder does its namesake's duty on this side of the shores of death, and they use it to punish their worst criminals." Thjazi paused to smile. It is not an evil smile, or a cruel one, but a smile of wonder and the joys of new discovery. "The snake's venom is a potent cytotoxin, you see. It actually digests the tissues around the bite, incapacitating its prey so it does not have to fear reprisals." He paused, then held his hands a foot apart. "It's a very small snake. It has no other recourse against large enemies." He put his hands behind his back. He looked down at Loki, and said, with a chillingly dispassionate voice,

"I have a vial of this venom." He pointed upward, to the ceiling; Loki could just barely make out a divot directly above him. "When I give the word, it will begin to pour out slow drops onto your skin. I am most curious to see what it does when applied directly, rather than subcutaneously."

Loki felt numb. In retrospect, that was surely why he asked, "Why not subcutaneously, as well? I am your prisoner."

"I already know what it does subcutaneously."

Loki raised his head. "How in the _Tree_ would you have cause to learn that, from a snake that only lives on Múspelheim's Anvil?"

Thjazi tilted his head. "A dilute form is used in elding darts."

Loki sagged back against the stone. The wound in his leg pulsed in sudden agony, and he spasmed at the clench in the damaged muscle. "I admire your creativity," he said as conversationally as he could.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Thjazi's lips. "I'm glad of your approval." He snapped his fingers, then turned on his heel and walked out, as abruptly as he had appeared.

Loki was left staring up at the ceiling in apprehension. He couldn't see anything; he could barely make out the divot the vial was supposedly tucked inside of. He waited, and his wounds throbbed. He tried not to imagine how his hands would heal, if they were left untreated. _If_ they healed; maybe they would get infected. If the Norns were merciful they would weave a systemic infection for him, one that would kill him quickly.

He doubted they would. His experience with the Norns taught him they were vindictive bitches.

He almost missed the tiny, clear droplet that fell from the ceiling. It fell like a star falling in the distant reaches of the night sky, or a piece of spume cast aside by the sea. It fell as though it were an afterthought, a single drop that was all that remained of a great torrent since spent. Loki watched it descend, and those brief moments before it touched his skin were, he knew, his last moments of bliss.

It landed.

He blinked. It was little worse than a bee sting: a bright speck of pain against his sternum, but hardly a trial; hardly worse than what injuries he already bore. Loki had done worse to himself playing with his _seiðr_. He craned his neck to look at the tiny drop of venom sitting against his chest, and wondered if it took longer to penetrate the skin than Laufey suspected. Perhaps he would have a few more hours' respite, before the pain truly began.

The longer it sat against his skin, however, the more the burn increased, until Loki was panting through his teeth. He glanced around the cavern; there was nothing in reach, and he was chained down so firmly he couldn't have touched his chest if he'd tried. It was such a tiny droplet; surely it would evaporate.

But no, Loki realized. The air was cold, but it was also humid, in a way he hadn't experienced since the summer haze of Asgard. It would take a long time for anything to dry in this room, including drops of venom. Desperation sent Loki lurching to the side as much as he was able, in the hopes of dumping the venom off him; all it did was leave a burning trail down his side as gravity dragged the drop over his ribs. He gasped, and a stripe of irritated flesh rose from the indigo welt on his chest. He looked back up at the divot. He couldn't see the next drop forming, but he knew it was there.

 _I am a shapeshifter_ , he thought suddenly, and was incandescently furious at himself. There was no fetter than could hold a jötunn and a mouse alike, after all, and Loki could change into a mouse as easily as another might change his tunic. He concentrated on the flow of his body, imagined molding it into the form he desired--and hit against a psychic wall that left him trembling in reaction. It was then he noticed the glow of runes carved into the shackles, a fading, icy blue that disappeared into the metal as fast they had appeared.

He tried again, this time for a snake, and watched the chains. This time he cried out in pain, as though he had tried to run full-tilt at a solid wall. The chains flared and faded.

He was trapped. He had no magic beyond his skin's innate power, and that would be of little use to him against Jötunn-forged chains.

During this time, a second drop had begun to fall; and no sooner had Loki turned from his bonds than it landed on his skin. He yelped in shock, and then burgeoning pain as it burned at his skin. Reflex sent his _hrímskjöld_ to the fore, to quench the burn, and frost spread out over the drop, and around the glistening remains of the first. He had thought to tilt the frozen droplet off the side, but he had miscalculated the manner in which it would freeze: it did so as a drop of water might freeze to a window in a sudden blast of cold: it froze to his skin, and did not let go no matter he tried to cast himself to the side.

Yes, Thjazi's creativity was a thing of wonder.

Loki's world narrowed to the slow drip of the venom. He had nothing else with which to distract himself; he stared at the divot in the ceiling, and awaited the next droplet with a focus that bordered on obsession. When he was sensate, he marked the passage of time by the spread of the lesions across his chest. The oldest were fading by now, but the newest, and especially the ones that landed on previously damaged skin, raised blisters, and Loki couldn't keep in his screams when new drops landed on them.

The true cruelty of the torture was realized to him after his chest had turned into a welter of blisters and swollen, angry skin. He didn't know how much time had passed, but exhaustion had finally dragged him into a light doze. When the drop fell, it ripped him back to wakefulness with a choking gasp.

He could not sleep. Not as long as the drops continued to fall. 

Tears ran warm over his temples. If Thor was going to return, he would have by now. No one else would come for him, he knew that much. He would die beneath this vial, one drop at a time, until it either ate a hole clear through him or systemic shock took its toll. He watched through a black veil of despair as the next drop fell. He writhed against the chains, spiking pain through his hands and tearing open half-healed sores on his wrists.

Not the most dignified death. He doubted many would remember Loki Laufeyjarson, forgotten son of Jötunheim and lowly, short-lived consort of Asgard's prince. The next drop drew a whimper from him, and a full-body quiver that set his injuries throbbing.

Would Thor miss him? There had been a few good moments between them, after they had found common ground. Loki recalled teaching Thor the war dances, and chasing geckos one afternoon after browbeating them both with Eldjötunn etiquette. He remembered lying in Thor's bed, wrapped in his heat, and the only pain he felt served to spice his pleasure rather than cut it short.

He thought, in the darkness of the cave, between drops of the Nídhogg's own breath, that he might have come to love Thor, had he but a little longer to try. He wished he could. He wished he was free from this pit, from his chains, from the persistence of the venom, so he could bury himself in Thor and never reemerge.

A distant part of him hoped his family was faring well, but that part was not very strong, and the impulse didn't last from one drop to the next.

Thjazi came in, as well. Not often; it took him to the count of one hundred drops before his tormentor reappeared. Loki had thought counting the drops might stave off the slow erosion of his mind, but it didn't; it merely made him panic when he lost track.

Thjazi's visits came with a single blessing: when he inspected Loki, the drops stopped for the duration. The first time, Loki managed to cling to consciousness long enough to ask him a question that had been burning through him, in the bitter wait between agony.

"Does Skadi know?"

Thjazi's expression darkened, the first crack in his demeanor Loki had managed. "My son is no concern of yours."

"He doesn't," Loki guessed, and lowered his head back to the floor. "Did he tell you Thor and I were missing, or did you already have this room waiting on the off chance I might come to call?"

Thjazi said nothing more, merely measured the spread and overall effect of the venom on Loki's skin. It was a distant gamble, Loki supposed. Thjazi was old and clever, like a boar who had survived many hunts. Loki dozed.

The second time Thjazi came, Loki didn't bother asking questions; he fell promptly asleep, and the bite of the venom drew raw sobs from him when it tore him awake.

When he could make himself look at his chest, it had turned into a field of raw, swollen tissue. There was little blood; Loki supposed the swelling was cutting off blood flow. He wondered if he'd be able to smell it when he started rotting.

Thjazi came and went. Visions danced before Loki's eyes, ephemera and taunting promises that vanished from drop to drop. He ran his tongue over his dry, cracked lips and wondered if he might hunker himself down to catch a drop in his mouth. Surely it wouldn't hurt any more than his throat already did; it might even kill him faster if he was lucky. All his efforts bought him, however, was a series of welts running up his chest to pool in the hollow of his collarbones. He let out ragged, hollow sigh.

When next he heard the door clank open, he thought for a moment Thjazi had forgotten something; it was too soon for him to have come again. It didn't matter. He would die here, and Thjazi would tally up how long it took, and the amount of venom, and all the other particulars he left behind.

He did not expect to hear Sif Leifsdóttir's voice, soft as in horror, saying, "By the Tree," nor of Volstagg's unlovely face to appear above his. He jerked in his chains, the pain that ripped through him at the action a mere afterthought after the weight of so much.

"Get him out!" Sif ordered, and Loki almost started sobbing then and there. He hadn't hallucinated Sif or her companions before, but he supposed there was only so far the mind could go before it became truly desperate. This vision, though; it was crueler than most. He hungered for the next drop, to drive it away, and it fell, in a shimmering arc through the air like a diamond in the dim light, to the wreckage of his body. He writhed, crying out in a voice long since screamed dry.

"Why?" Fandral demanded, and Loki's eyes snapped open. "Why would they do this?"

Loki whimpered. They weren't visions, by the Tree, they weren't visions--

"Fire Giants," Sif hissed. "This is their venom, I have seen it before." And with that, she pulled free her shield and held it over Loki's helpless body.

Loki did cry, then. He trembled in shock and hope as the Warriors Three hacked at his chains, settling on a method where Volstagg would place the steel-capped butt of his axe through a link, and Hogun would strike the head with his mace to crack it. Fandral kept watch, and Sif held up her shield, catching the drops of venom as they fell.

Then they drew him to his feet--a fresh pain, for pressure sores had joined Loki's original hurts, and his muscles and joints had stiffened in a single attitude--and half guided, half dragged him out of the cavern. Sif tossed aside her shield, and Loki heard one last, lingering plink of venom against bare stone before the door was shut behind them. He concentrated on putting his feet forward in the correct order. He felt fluid oozing down the front of his butchered chest; it smelled not of blood, but of infection.

They drew him down long corridors and tunnels in the mountain face, and the longer they walked the more adrenaline flooded Loki's limbs until he was walking mostly under his own power. Each step jarred his torn body, but each step took him closer to freedom. He pressed onward, forcing himself to keep pace with the steady trot the Warriors had taken up.

Until they hit a junction, and there, turning their direction, was Thjazi. He pulled up short, just as the Warriors did, and there was a breathless pause while either side took in the improbability of the other. Thjazi moved first, spinning on his heel to race back down the hall.

"Stop him!" Loki rasped, and it was Sif who did, running him down in a fleet-footed tackle. She wrestled him down to a kneel, one hand holding him by his battle caul and the other holding her blade at his throat. Loki limped up to them, black rage spinning out from every fiber of his body.

"I am going to kill you," he said softly.

Thjazi laughed. "How? You have no _seiðr_ , Laufeyjarson."

"I need no magic for this," Loki replied, placing his forearms on either side of Thjazi's head. It took the last of his strength, but in a single, furious wrench, he felt the woody snap of his enemy's neck vibrate up his arms. Thjazi collapsed in the ponderous manner of an rockfall, picking up speed as his own limp body dragged him down. Loki memorized every inch of that fall, etching it into his mind's eye. He stood over Thjazi's corpse and said,

"May the Nídhogg feast on your corpse, Thjazi Olvaldason, in the cold halls of Náströnd beneath the roots of the Tree; and may a single gleam of hope keep you warm."

Then he, too, collapsed, and it was Sif's quick action alone that kept him from hitting the ground.

He faded in and out. He heard voices, and felt being picked up--he let out a hoarse, sobbing cry as his chest connected with an armored shoulder--

Then there was nothing but the distant clash of weapons, and the crushing light of Bifröst tearing him apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so a lot of people have been commenting on my writing speed, and I would like to clarify that I am _not_ , in fact, writing this fic as I go. I started writing it July 2012, I finished writing it last December, and the only thing I'm doing between posting is editing. I wish I was fast enough to write 5-7k a day, but I'm really, really not.


	20. Chapter 20

He woke to the sound of rain against leaves. The smell of honeysuckle and damp earth filled his nose, and when he opened his eyes he found himself looking up at the varnished boards of an Asgardian bedchamber. It was as far as it was possible to be from the rocky, distant hell of the cavern, and he almost relaxed before wariness made him tense.

"I was starting to wonder if you'd wake at all."

He started, and turned to follow the voice. He licked his lips, and in a broken, cracked voice, said, "Thor?"

He sat in a chair beside Loki's bed, and it was as though he had aged a century since Loki had last seen him. He was... frail. He smiled. "Hello, Loki."

Loki glanced around the strange room before his eyes returned to his husband. "Where am I?"

"You are in the private hall of Lady Sif. It wasn't safe to take you anywhere else."

Loki stared at him. "Why not?"

"The Allfather put out a warrant for your arrest."

"But--why would--surely you wouldn't stand for that," He finished weakly. He fell to coughing, and Thor reached for a glass of water. He held it Loki's lips, and supported his head while he drank. Loki nodded when he was finished.

"I am in disgrace," Thor said quietly, returning the glass to its place. "My father stripped my powers for the crime of fomenting war."

All the breath left Loki's lungs. He took in the signs: Thor looked exhausted, his eyes shone less brightly. Even his golden hair seemed dull. Thor rested a hand against his shoulder, and Loki wondered if even that felt slightly cooler than before.

"I would have gone back for you, if I could have," Thor said.

Reflexively Loki looked down at himself. Gone were the swathes of blistered, weeping flesh; in their place were tidy white bandages. He raised his hands, and they, too, were wrapped in white. He settle back into the bedsheets, and tears pricked at his eyes.

"Loki?"

"I survived," he said, his voice wavering beneath the force of his emotion. "I didn't--didn't think I would." The cradle of the mattress, the cool breeze playing through the curtains, the leather and musk smell of Thor, absent his usual spark of ozone; he drank these in until he was certain his heart would break. Thor combed his fingers through his hair, and Loki pressed up into the touch. His breath shuddered out of him.

"Thank you," he said, and Thor moved suddenly, bending down to kiss him. His lips were soft, and his hair was too, as it brushed against Loki's cheek. He pulled away, his cheeks red.

"I'm sorry," he said, resting his fingers against the bandages.

"Don’t apologize for that," Loki said. He gazed up at his husband, and moved to put his bandaged lump of a hand over Thor’s.

"But I abandoned you--"

"For reasons you could not help."

Thor looked away, almost as though he was bashful. "I wasn't certain you would still want to kiss me."

Loki stared at the ceiling, and it was everything the horror of the past days had not been. He swallowed back the lump in his throat. "I have learned more things than I thought I could about what I want," he said, the words feeling awkward in his mouth. "And I want to hold all the shining moments I can, before they're gone." He held a hand out to Thor. "Husband, I would kiss you until the stars fell, and be glad of it."

A tinge of color rose to Thor's unnaturally pale cheeks, but still he was somber. "Even like this? Even weak?"

Loki raised a brow at him, and showed his mittened hands pointedly.

That drew a stronger blush, and a lopsided smile spread over Thor's face. "It's time to change those, anyway." He rose from his seat, and Loki waited for direction.

Thor bent over him in the bed, his face over Loki's, and helped him sit upright. Loki winced against the aches that flared from everywhere at once, and watched, trepidation rising thick and fast in the back of his throat, as Thor unwrapped his chest.

It was far better than he had feared, and yet much worse. The Jötnar were a fast-healing race, and it showed: the swelling had receded, and the raw flesh had closed over. Through the scabs, however, Loki saw that his mother-line was completely obliterated, and that even should he heal without complication, he would bear livid, pitted scars for the rest of life. He tilted his head back and blinked away tears as Thor rewrapped him with fresh bandages.

"This should be the last set you'll need," Thor said, tucking the loose end under the wrapping. "Eir said it's healing nicely. Now for your hands." He paused at the stiffness in Loki's body. "Loki? Are you all right?"

"Of course," he said quickly, with a passable attempt at a smile. He held up his hands. "After you."

His hands were better off. They had needed to be rebroken, Thor told him, but he had been asleep for that, thank the Foremothers. Once they had been properly aligned, the bones knitted back together in a trice. He looked down at the splinted mess of his fingers and said, "This will make eating difficult. And dressing." His eye caught on the garderobe door in the corner, and he shuddered. "How long until the splints come off?"

"One more day," Thor replied, light coming back in his eyes enough to twinkle.

The last injury in his catalogue was his thigh, and it was similarly pitted to his chest, though far smaller. Loki watched the new, darker indigo scar move over the muscle of his thigh. There was some lingering stiffness, but training should take care of that. "Can I stand up?"

"You can try," Thor said. "I didn't expect you would recover so quickly, but you rallied after your second day."

Shock filtered through Loki. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Four days," Thor replied. His face grew drawn before it smoothed away, and Loki gathered they had been harrowing days. Thor took his arm. "Come, let me help you."

Together they wobbled Loki upright. He wavered, and he was forced to lean heavily against Thor's broad chest; but what had once been like a wall, obdurate bone and muscle and invulnerable to any harm, now felt fragile as a basket of woven twigs, the muscle weak as a babe's. Loki had always been the weakest of those around him, but now he was as certain as the pain in his body that if he desired it, he could crush Thor's ribcage with his bare hands.

What sort of parent would do this to their child?

Thor helped him out of the room. It was a hideously awkward trek, for Loki tried to lean against Thor as little as possible, but had little choice. He almost stumbled into a side table before Thor paused and shook him bodily.

"Enough!" he said. "If you do not trust my strength, say so, and you can make your own way."

Loki looked down, ashamed of himself. "It is not your ability I doubt. It is my inattention." He looked up at Thor. "I could hurt you without thought, without intent, merely from gripping too hard."

Thor's eyes were hooded. "Let me be the judge of how tight your grip is," he said, and so saying, dragged Loki's arm over his shoulder suddenly enough that Loki staggered against him. Thor stood firm.

"I am no weakling, even now," he said, and so, with his arm trapped beneath Thor's determined grip, Loki followed him out the doors and into the garden.

He had not expected to miss the rain. It was a summer rain, warm despite the respite from the heat it brought, and Loki limped free of Thor's grasp to stand out on the sward. His bandages soaked through in an instant. He raised his arms and his face, and let the rain, thousands of tiny, soothing drops of pure water, wash away the stinging memory of single, tainted drops. Tears ran hot down his cheeks.

"You'll have to change your bandages again," Thor called out, and Loki glanced to where he stood, sheltered beneath the overhang of the roof. Ferns bobbed by his feet, and a willow tree swayed in the wind.

"Come stand with me," Loki said, his voice clotted with memory and emotion.

Thor shook his head. "It is better that I do not."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "It's easier for me to catch a chill, now."

His expression was carefully cheerful, and Loki felt the strangest combination of tender and furious. He flared his _hrímskjöld_ until frost coiled out from his feet, and raindrops froze in midair before they touched him. He robed himself in icy, forbidding armor, and in his darkest, most dispassionate voice, said, "Puny ás."

It took a moment, but once Thor worked past his surprise he laughed, and looked almost as golden as he ever had.

***

They spent the day quietly, Loki reacquainting himself with the thought of living, and Thor sitting with a book of poetry. When he had read his fill, practiced battle forms on the long covered porch. They slept entwined together, and soothed each other's dreams.

In the morning, Thor unwrapped Loki's hands, and eased off the splints, and massaged them until Loki could bend his fingers again. Then Loki slowly unwrapped his chest, laboriously peeling back layers of gauze until he was bared to the cool air of the house. He felt naked and small, and tender with new skin.

Sif came in to see him not long after he had put himself mostly to rights. Her eyes flicked down to the scarred mess of his chest, but mercifully her expression didn’t change. "You are feeling better?" she asked, standing self-consciously in the intimate confines of the bedroom.

"I am," Loki said cautiously. He ventured forth, into uncertain territory. "Thank you. For--all you've done."

Her cheeks pinkened and she said, "You're welcome. Please don't mention it again."

They shared an indescribably awkward moment of camaraderie before she bowed to Thor and escaped. Thor rolled his eyes.

"Can you glamor yourself?" he asked. "As you did to me on Jötunheim?"

Loki stared at him for a moment, before huffing a laugh. Instead of answering, he shifted into the form he called Lopt, whose skin was becoming almost as familiar to him as his own. "I can do better than a glamor," he said. He reached out to touch Thor's hand, and savored Thor's surprise at the warmth of his hand.

"You're an ás," Thor said wonderingly, taking in Loki's changed face.

It was the first time he'd ever seen Lopt, Loki realized. He stood and swayed close to Thor, pushing up on his toes so he could whisper in his ear, "In all ways."

He pulled back with a smirk. Thor stood red-cheeked and irritated.

"Loki," he said quellingly.

"You were wondering, don't deny it."

Thor stared at him in bemusement for a time, before shaking his head. "You might want to dress as Asgardians do. An ás's form will mean little if you're wearing a jötunn kilt over it."

Loki waved his hands, and sober, green-edged garb manifested over his shoulders. "Better?"

Thor looked him over. He nodded. "Let's go."

He took them to the nearest portal, and when they emerged, Loki's step hitched, for it was the last place he would have suspected. They were on Fallsweet Row, and there, Cloud's End, Loki's own hall. "Here?" he asked.

"It is the Jötunn Ambassador's hall," Thor said.

The lock brightened in proximity to the key on Thor's belt, and together they stepped into the entryway. Loki felt the most exquisite sense of displacement, as though it had been years, not weeks, since he last set foot in the hall. He stared at the ice sculpture he had carved and glassed himself, with his own hands. It was a raven perched in an ash tree. He had felt like the Allfather's eye was always watching, he remembered. He had protested by way of personal artwork; looking on it now, the memories seemed almost to belong to another person.

"My lord Loki?"

Loki turned. Halldóra stood in the doorway, an uncertain expression on her face. Loki melted back to his given form and was stumbling toward her before he could stop himself. He crushed her in a powerful hug. "It is... very good to see you again," he said, his voice cracking. Her hands came up around his back, patting him awkwardly. When he pulled back, her cheeks were red, though her expression was as unruffled as ever.

"Yes, well," she said. "We missed you, also." Her eyes flicked to Thor, before returning to Loki, and breaking into a small, genuine smile. "It's good to have you back, my lord. I imagine you'll want to see your family?"

Loki sobered instantly.

"Yes," Thor answered for him. "We would like to speak with them."

Halldóra nodded, and led them up the staircase. There were fresh blooms in the vases--not the icehouse blooms Loki spent exorbitant sums on, but humble Asgardian cornflowers instead, and forget-me-nots and hollyhocks, as well.

She led them into the day parlor, tucked beneath the eaves and cooled by breezes caught by the open window. Helblindi was there, sitting on a stool by a writing desk and dwarfing both. He looked up at their entrance.

"Loki," he said, standing so quickly he nearly struck his horns on the ceiling.

Loki bowed. "Brother. Is our mother well?"

"Better than he was," Helblindi said, but there was a cautious look in his eye that had Loki standing straighter.

"But?" he asked.

Helblindi sighed. "But he's still very weak. The dart..." His eyes fixed on Loki's chest for a moment before his skittered to the side. "Fighting the lingering effects has sapped his strength."

"Is he conscious?"

"Yes, but--"

"I want to see him." He turned; Thor was a scarlet shadow in the doorway, listening in on the drama of what must now be his family, as well. "Where is he?"

Helblindi sighed heavily but rose and led the way down the hall, stopping before a closed door. "He may not be awake," he said, then opened the door.

Loki had a bare moment to take in the scene: his mother, tucked in a bed barely long enough for him, and Býleist, playing with a set of dolls, before suddenly his younger brother was moving, and the world disappeared inside a crushing, blue hug. Loki felt his ribs creak.

"Loki!"

"H-hello, Little Bee," he squeezed out. "How did you get here?"

"Mother sent me away to Uncle Mærvall, and we were there forever but Nurse wasn't so I got to hunt shrikes and--"

"We pulled him through the Dwarven Ways as soon as we could," Helblindi answered. "Put him down, Býleist."

Býleist did, and Loki took as deep a breath as he could without being obvious. "Thor," he said, turning to his husband, "this is my little brother, Býleist, Third Scion of Jötunheim. Býleist, my husband, Thor, Crown-Prince of Asgard."

Býleist was easily twice Loki's mass, and nearly topped him in height; he looked upon Thor with undisguised apprehension. He bowed a stiff, childish bow. "You're my brother's spouse?"

"I am," Thor replied, glancing between Loki and Býleist. "You are younger?"

"I'm four hundred!" Býleist announced, and Thor had to stifle as a smile as he compared their heights again. Loki scowled at him.

"Loki," Laufey said from the bed, his voice thready and weak. "Come in."

Loki unwound Býleist's hands from his cloak and stepped forward. Laufey nodded toward a chair beside his bed; Loki took it, swallowing a hiss when his thigh twinged. "Honored Mother," he said quietly.

Laufey gazed at him, his gaze slipping unfocused before snapping back to sharpness. "You look dreadful," he said.

"As do you."

"What excuse do you have?"

"Torture. And you?"

Laufey's lips twitched before he stilled them. "Nothing so calculated as that."

Thor shifted, the floorboards creaking beneath him.

"Calm down, boy," Laufey called out to him. "This is our way."

Loki rolled his eyes. "If you're not at death's door, perhaps you could tell me what you've been doing in your," he glanced over the bed, and the chaos of medical materiel on the bureau beyond, "clearly abundant spare time."

This time Laufey's smile was clear. "Ask Helblindi," he said. "He is acting as First Scion. I'm merely enjoying the fruits of his labor."

"Mother," Helblindi said, in an exasperated tone.

Laufey inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes falling shut. "I can tell you little. But it is good to see my child is well."

"Well enough," Loki corrected. He looked to Helblindi, standing at the foot of the bed, with Býleist hugging his waist. Thor lingered in the doorway, looking out of place. He took a deep breath of his own.

"What do I need to know?"

"Skadi has disappeared," Helblindi said. "We think perhaps he was captured by Eldjötnar agents. He's not as well connected as Thjazi, but Thjazi was caught up in the coup, and his son could be a bargaining chip for those wanting the information he holds."

Loki suddenly felt ancient. "Thjazi is dead," he said. "I killed him myself."

"Why?" Helblindi looked equal parts horrified and scandalized.

"Because it was he who ordered me tortured," Loki replied. "He was the Eldjötnar's ally inside Útgard. It was he who betrayed us."

"Let me guess," Laufey said into the heavy silence that followed. "He was angered by my betrayal of kinship ties."

Loki nodded, unable to speak.

"So Skadi left because his father was discovered as traitor?"

Loki cleared the blockage. "Most likely."

"Múspelheim would be the most likely refuge..."

Thor stood up straight. "There was a message come from Jötunheim, this morning," he said. "From the Eldjötnar forces. They demanded Loki Laufeyjarson, whole and untouched, to be ransomed for weregild as a kinslayer and betrayer. Perhaps this is why."

"That has been dealt with," Laufey said fuzzily. "Tell Ekkja it is over."

Loki felt as though he had been bodychecked by a dire wolf.

"Of course, Mother," Helblindi said softly.

"What is he talking about?" Thor asked, looking between them like a man cautious of stepping through ice into a hidden crevasse.

"When I was young," Loki said, then started over. "When I was a child, and my skill at sorcery was discovered, my mother sent me to the Glæsisvellir, to foster with my father's tribe. I lived there for three centuries: well into manhood. I made my first kill with them. And I killed my own kin."

Thor's breathing stilled. Loki went on.

"If it had been any other perhaps the punishment would not have been so cruel; but he was my teacher, Gudmund. My father's brother's spouse. Kin, and worse, the tribe's sorcerer, and the best sorcerer the Glæsisvellir has ever seen, before or since. They tell legends of his feats as a young man."

"How did he die?" Thor's voice is low and quiet.

"I killed him!" Loki snapped. "What more do you need to know?"

"Loki," Helblindi said. Thor looked stricken, staring at the floor. Loki slumped back in his chair, inexplicable shame running through him.

"I was proud," he said. "I was sure I was nearly as strong as Gudmund Grower, and I decided to prove it." He shook his head. "I tried to quicken the grass for as far as I could reach, but instead I killed everything for a mile around. Including Gudmund." He cracked a bitter smile. "It was a beginner's mistake."

"That is not what this summons is about," Helblindi cut through, his voice firm. "Thor, what are your father's intentions with respect to this demand?"

Thor's expression was shuttered. "He means to give Loki to them." His gaze flicked up to Loki, then to Helblindi. "I do not support it."

Helblindi speared him with the intense glare of the most recent branch of Ymir's tree. "Will that be enough?"

Thor looked down at the floor, considering. The silence was tense; Loki knew Thor adored his father; this choice would not be an easy one.

"It might," he finally said. "I don't know."

Helblindi's mouth twisted. "It will have to suffice. Loki, do you have any allies left?"

Loki tried for a smile; it felt wrong, somehow. "I doubt it."

"Then we will try for what we can. I have received a summons to meet with the Allfather at the eighth bell, tomorrow; perhaps both of you should accompany me."

"It will certainly make our position clear," Loki said dryly. Thor nodded, but said nothing. Silence fell, a tense, worried quiet that settled like an overheavy burden of snow over an old roof. Loki fancied he could hear the rafters of their courage creaking.

A soft snore from Laufey broke the tension, and Loki shared a smile his brother. "Perhaps that is our cue to adjourn," Loki said.

Helblindi inclined his head. His horns, spiraled Loki's were, narrowly missed scraping the ceiling. "We will form a more coherent plan over breakfast."

"Am I still in my rooms?" Loki asked.

Helblindi gave him a strange look. "Of course."

"It has been a busy month."

"Not so busy that I would take your room," Helblindi said, exasperated. He glanced to Thor. "You will watch over him? He is still weakened."

Thor placed a hand against Loki's back. "I will."

Loki glanced between them. They wore identical determined expressions, and Loki shook his head. Unbelievable. He spun on his heel, slipping wordlessly out the door to escape the protectiveness of his family. _Thor can't even fight off a child,_ he thought uncharitably.

His rooms were unchanged from last he had seen them. The doors stood propped open, letting in the rose-scented breeze, and Halldóra had sent Ælfa to turn down the blankets. A mug of spiced cider sat by his bedside, perfuming the air with memories, and Loki had to stop, overcome by emotions he couldn't parse. His chest ached. His matrimonial sword rested upon the bureau; Loki touched it, to make sure it was real.

He felt the warmth of Thor's body before he heard him, and Loki breathed in his scent. He didn't know when the smell of his husband had gone from threatening to comforting, but his body had marked the change, and he was relaxed even before Thor curled a tentative hand around his waist. Loki leaned back into his warmth.

"Come to bed," Thor said.

Loki nodded, reluctant to break this tableau and the tremulous, easy peace that had fallen with it. Thor let him go, baring Loki's back to the suddenly chill air, and went to their bed. This was the first time Thor had slept in his room, Loki realized. Thor plucked at his tunic, as though considering whether to take it off; a glance to Loki, and whatever expression Loki wore, decided him, and he pulled it over his head, baring smooth, pale skin to the honeyed warmth of the lamplight. Loki watched him, watched the play of muscle as he lowered himself down to the sheets. Then those dear, blue eyes turned to him, uncertain.

Loki stepped closer. He shed his boots and sat on the bed beside his husband. He reached out a hand to stroke back a fallen strand of hair, tucking it behind Thor’s ear; Thor turned his face into his palm and kissed his life line. Loki shuddered. He pulled back the blankets, and, tucking himself against Thor’s chest, threw them over both of them.

“I did not imagine, upon marrying you, that I would ever love you,” Thor said softly, his voice dark in Loki’s ear. “And yet…” he reached out to cup Loki’s face, stroking his thumb over his brow.

Loki’s hand tightened, where it lay over Thor’s hip. “And yet here we are,” he said. “I, personally, vote for shared madness. It’s the only rational explanation. That or combined captor/captive effect.”

Thor huffed a laugh, and pressed his forehead against Loki’s. “Must you always lighten the moment?”

Loki swallowed. “It’s safer to make light, than to show one’s weaknesses.”

“I have no vulnerabilities left to hide,” Thor said. “You have laid me open and read me down to my soul.”

“That sounds painful.”

“It is. It is the cruelest joy I have ever known.”

A lump stopped up Loki’s throat, and in place of words he leaned forward to press his lips against Thor’s. Thor kissed back with aching sweetness, and Loki clung to him, for an uncertain future lay before them. Thor made a pained grunt against his lips, and Loki pulled back, startled.

"What is it?" he asked.

Thor looked annoyed and desperately unhappy. "Your grip," he said, and Loki saw the welling bruises on Thor's arms. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He hissed.

"I hope you understand when I say I could cheerfully break every bone in your father's body," he said.

The words didn't soothe Thor. In fact, they made him duck his head so Loki couldn't see his face. "He is my father, Loki."

And that was the crux of it, wasn't it. Their entire plan tomorrow hinged on Thor opposing a father he loved, and who, until recently, he had trusted absolutely. Guilt edged into Loki's anger. He laid soft fingers over the marks he had left.

"We can still couple, if you wish," he said. "I will simply have to be more careful."

In a disorienting twist, Thor flipped them, pinning Loki's hands to the bed. "I am no glass figurine, to be handled delicately," he said.

Loki smiled, undulating up to meet him. "Did I say that?" He kissed Thor, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "I don't believe I said that."

His skin was sensitive, heated and hungry for touch. Thor tormented him, trailing his fingertips over every inch of Loki's skin until he was keening with need; and only then, when he was past all ability to check himself, did Thor give him what he wanted.

They coupled, and then they slept, and the Norns wove their fates.

***

"Asgard recognizes the Acting First Scion of Jötunheim."

The doors at the back of the hall opened, and a flourish of Jötunn horns sounded. Helblindi strode through them, dressed in the regalia of his station; the crowd parted, and showed him flanked by Thor of No Son and his concubine Loki, eyes bloody and demon-red, and far more sinister than his taller brother.

“Allfather,” Helblindi said, the peremptory crack to his voice vastly different from the silken drawl of his mother. “I come on behalf of others, this day.”

The Allfather’s expression was forbidding. “Those others are outcast and outlawed. They are not welcome to speak here.” He gestured, and guards bristled from the side-aisles.

“They are under my protection as First Scion,” Helblindi stated. “As such, you have no authority to remove them, or to deny their voice if I choose to let them speak for me.” His smile was entirely his mother’s. “One king to another, of course.”

Odin looked as though he had bitten into an unripe lemon. He waved the guards back. “Say your piece.”

"I would speak," Thor said, stepping forward. He wore his finest tunic. It was plain he had no strength for the weight of armor.

Odin narrowed his eye at his approaching son, but his face expression gave nothing else away. "What does my son bring before me?"

Thor came to a stop before the foot of the stairs, standing in the center of the valknot inlaid in the stone. "Father, I petition you to reject the Eldjötnar demand for the extradition of Loki Laufeyjarson."

It was not easily seen, in the scale of the room, but a few pairs of eyes--one of them red and quick--caught the way the Allfather's hand clenched on his spear. "Out of the question. He is requested as a resolution to an internal affair, one that is not our jurisdiction."

"Respectfully, I contest." Thor's face was calm, resolute. Those courtiers closest to him whispered to each other, for the Allfather's eldest son was reckless and bored with politics, not this steady statesman.

Thor went on. "I contest, for in marrying me Loki has been raised to Asgardian citizenship. If marrying Asgard's prince doesn't confer such an honor, what does?"

"He is not a true spouse, boy. He is a concubine."

The concubine stepped forward and said, "And whose fault is that? It was not Jötunheim who requested concubinage."

The Acting First Scion laid a hand on Loki's shoulder. "My brother speaks truly," Helblindi said, his voice rumbling through the hall. "Jötunheim’s throne broke legal ties with Loki upon his marriage. Moreover, I stand before you as Acting First Scion. I speak for Jötunheim, and I say Loki's quarrel is with the Eldjötnar, not the Hrímthursar, and the Eldings have no claim on him at all."

Odin Allfather swayed not a hair. "The charge comes from the lips of a frost giant."

"Is that jötunn called Skadi Thjazason?" Thor asks. "If it is, then you should be advised that he has been found to be a traitor to the rightful throne of Jötunheim. He has no claim, either."

"I will not put Asgard's safety in question for the sake of a concubine!" Odin roared, and the throne room fell into silence.

"Then make Loki my spouse in full," Thor said, his voice quiet, but the words piercing. Loki's head jerked to look at him. Later the onlookers would comment on the peculiar shade of red that came over the Allfather's features.

"Out of the question," he said.

Helblindi barked a deafening laugh. "Can't have a frost giant wedded to the future king of Asgard, can we?"

Odin glared, but it was Thor who spoke first, deliberately, and with his voice pitched to carry. "If you will not permit Loki of Jötunheim to be my spouse in full, then I will not marry any other."

The hush was absolute. All eyes in the room were fixed on Thor and his father. Odin's expression was a rictus of fury, carefully controlled but clear for all to see. He took a single step forward, to the edge of the dais. "I--" he paused. "I will not permit--"

He took another step, almost a stagger, then righted himself, leaning heavily on the spear of his office. "No son of m-mine will--" The spear slipped from his fingers to tumble down the stairs, and Odin fell heavily, landing on one knee with a clatter of armor against stone that rang through the hall.

"Father!" Thor ran up the stairs three at a time. He reached Odin in time to lower him gently to the floor. "Father, what's wrong!"

"Send for the queen!" someone shouted; as though this was a cue, the onlookers erupted into panic. The two jötunns stood calm in the midst of it, glaciers in the midst of the flood about them. Helblindi dragged Loki close, to keep him from getting trampled. Guards surged to the fore, pressing the burgeoning mob back to the walls and restoring a semblance of order. Frigga came in their wake, her face a blank mask. She marched up the steps to the top of the dais, where her son cradled her husband in the shadow of the throne, and gently pushed Thor aside. She checked Odin's pulse, his breathing, and the flow of his ley lines.

"It is the Odinsleep," she announced. "Until he awakes, Asgard is in need of a king." Her eyes were merciless as she looked upon Thor. She motioned to the guards, and they prepared a litter with their shields, then carefully drew the Allfather upon it. Frigga took her son's hands, but there was little tenderness in the gesture.

She was the Allmother, now.

"Thor Odinsson, you are now Prince Regent of Asgard until Odin Borsson should wake. Your powers are returned to you." She made a tiny gesture, and Thor, white-faced with shock, staggered back. He stared at his hands; his cheeks flushed, and around him grew a halo, as of electrical discharge in a thunderstorm. He raised his hand; from the depths of the palace a singing whine emerged, and Mjölnir flew like a star to his outstretched grasp.

None marked how Loki picked up Odin's spear--except perhaps Frigga, and she said nothing.

A guard stepped forward and knelt at Thor's feet. "What is your command?" he asked.

Thor's eyes were wide, his breathing ragged. "We hereby declare war on Múspelheim," he said, his voice ringing through the throne room. Unseen in his elder brother's shadow, Loki Laufeyjarson smiled.


	21. Chapter 21

Loki placed each hand and foot carefully. The headlands of the glacier were riddled with rotten ice and hidden crevasses; the slightest inattention could mean death. Ahead, the penumbra of the Dwarven Waygate flickered over the ice. Loki glanced behind; Sif was with him, the buckles of her scout’s armor wrapped against the cold, her dark hair limed white against the brightness of the snow. Loki himself had wrapped himself in his whitest furs, and limed his own hair and skin. They were nigh invisible, when they went to ground. He made a sign to advance; she nodded and crawled abreast to peer into the heart of the enemy.

Eldings, below. Their camp was small--naught but a battalion, laid in the concentric circles Múspellian military theory favored. Fires and heat charms had melted the camp into a dell, and it was over the edge of this that Loki and Sif peered. On the far edge, glimmering in the night, stood a temporary Waygate. It was made of the heartwood of oak and maple, the better to withstand the tidal forces of the Dwarves’ _seiðr_ , but even from this distance Loki could make out the tremor of unsteady magic. It had been hard-used.

Loki counted their numbers, the warm presence of Sif at his side. These were the troops Thor sought especially to confront, for their leader--Loki marked her as she stepped from her tent, willowy, narrow-faced, with a saber at her hip--was cunning and vicious. She had faded from their last skirmish like fog from the warmth of day, and Loki and Sif had tracked her the entire way. It was beyond strange; the Eldjötnar were in a position of strength, entrenched as they were in the highlands around Gastropnir. There was no need for this captain to retreat.

The presence of the Waygate answered all his questions. The first edges of dawn crept over the horizon, and Loki flattened himself into the snow when the reveille sounded. He peered through a tuft of determined sedge, germinated on the ice from a pocket of topsoil that the ever-present wind had deposited in a crevice, and watched as, the over the course of the morning, the fire giant army mustered, broke camp, and disappeared, squad-by-squad, through the Waygate. Loki pushed himself upright as the last disappeared. Sif looked to him; he gestured her up, and together they made their way down the slope to the campsite.

Nothing remained but trash and the depressions of a hundred heat charms. He stepped over to the Waygate, slipping over the fresh-melted ice, but it was no use: the spell had already been cancelled. It had reverted to nothing more than wood pylons, with no more hint of their destination than the latrine pit on the far side of the camp.

Bitterness curdled in his stomach. He canted his head toward Sif; she shook her head. As one, they slipped back to the roof of the glacier.

They grown familiar enough with each other, now, that they rarely needed to speak on scouting missions. The war had stretched from one month to two, and from two into four. Loki suspected it would stretch into a decade before any ground could be gained against the Eldjötnar, if they did not find some way to counter the advantage of the Waygates.

If the Allfather did not wake before then, and damn them all for dragging Asgard into a fool’s war. 

It was time to return to base camp. They were practiced with this, as well: Loki hunched himself into the shift and Sif pulled out a cloak that allowed her to access the same magics. In a handful of bone-crunching, pin-pricked minutes, a pair of Jötunn shrikes clacked their talons across the ice of Bergelmir’s Glacier. Loki gave a screeching cry and spread his wings. The land fell away.

The first moments of flight were always a dizzying freefall, exhilarating and surreal; behind him, Sif screamed to the sky. A handful of wingbeats found Loki a rhythm, a few more found him a thermal. It was brighter than his eyes preferred, but he could see better and farther than he could as a jötunn, and as he rose higher on the weak thermals above the glacier he could see the faraway edge of the plain Thor had made his base. 

Vígríd. That was the name of this plain, the final plateau before the sharp cutoff to the sea. Loki spiraled higher in the sky, until the matters of ás and jötunn below shrank to seeming insignificance. He scanned the terrain, making out the bustle of the besieged Gastropnir to the east, the huddled crescent of the Asgardian encampment, and the brave, foolish line of the Einherjar. Loki gave another cry, Sif his distant echo, and as one they wheeled toward the sea. He settled himself into a shallow glide. It would, if he gauged the wind right, carry him straight to the Gulf, and the bright light of defense against the burning armies of Múspelheim.

It was silent, this high up. There was naught but the sound of their wingbeats and the whistling wind, and one could almost forget the peace was a lie. Terrestrial matters counted for so little, this high above the clouds.

Until a smudge on the southeastern marches, toward the distant, hazy hills of the Lowlands, caught Loki’s eye, and he screeched a warning to Sif. He wheeled toward the smudge, for it was the fires of battle. He feared they had found the exit-point of the Waygate.

It would not be the first time they had found it so.

Gone was the gentle glide from thermal to thermal. It would spend them faster, especially Sif, whose body was not innately gifted with shapeshifting; but neither had to speak to know that the thought of leaving Asgardian troops without the slightest aid they could offer was detestable. They pressed their pace until they were racing over the cloud-surf like skiffs on a windy day.

The battle drew nearer. Each gust of wind played over Loki’s feathers; he could play them like a harpist plucked a string. He had such control over each minute shift that he felt closer to a conductor leading an orchestra: cant the wing just so, and he yawed to the left; shift a single tailfeather, and his passage would become smoother.

Soon, the wind carried the sound of clashing steel to them, and with it the reek of scorched flesh and earth. Asgard had taken this land not three days ago, in a ferocious push against the Elding lines. The strategy had been simple: force them south, and the Eldjötnar would be pressed against the southern mountains, into the embrace of Jötunheim’s summer storms.

But Loki could see that this onslaught had already taken back the land Asgard had won, and more besides: The Asgardian rearguard was pressing back into a shallow valley, a killing field, and soldiers were falling like wheat.

Loki stooped. The wind whistled through his primaries; the ground tilted and rushed up to meet him. He blew like a comet over the heads of the Einherjar, and arrested his flight talon-first into the eye sockets of an elding berserker. He freed himself with a graceful twist, and by the time he landed, he had returned to his own form, wielding both his daggers in either hand. Sif landed a heartbeat later, shrugging her cloak back from her shoulders, and as one they tore into the enemy. A ragged cry rose from the Einherjar around them, and they fought with renewed ferocity, that they were aided by Thor’s concubine and his closest friend.

But the battle was already lost. A trumpet blast arose from the midst of the tumult, a mournful, wailing note. It was the sound for retreat, and the Eldjötnar bellowed in triumph. 

***

The main Asgardian base on Jötunheim was a hive of frenetic activity. Scouts streamed in, then faded out; runners dodged message birds in their quests to pass news, orders, and intelligence along the lines. Over the hills distant Loki could make out the steam rising from the Eldjötnar encampment. Behind, the glittering sea, catching the light of the rising suns and casting rainbows through the ice-rimed guylines and banners of the tents. Gastropnir was there as well, hidden in the vast canyon complex of the Ifing's delta. An entire city, and if it weren't for the clamor of the fisher fleet and the merchant caravans, no one would know it was there.

Loki threw back the flap to the command tent, where Thor was meeting with his scouts to try and salvage the battle. Helblindi was with him, as was Týr, the one-handed General of Asgard's armies, and Ægir, the Admiral of her fleets. The Warriors Three were there as well, though they were along the walls, and took the role of honor guard more than advisors. Sif went to join them; Loki stepped up to Thor's side. He was in full armor, his fists resting against the table as he considered the rendering of the Eldjötnar deployment before him. There were an uncomfortable number of question marks in place of troop numbers and placements.

Thor looked up as Loki took his place. Loki felt exhausted, but Thor looked it: his face was drawn, his eyes dark-rimmed and red. The campaign was barely out of its infancy as such things were reckoned, but its pace was grueling. “What news?” he asked.

“We found Idi’s encampment,” Loki began. “Unfortunately, we also found Idi’s Waygate, and her company found _you_.”

The assembled war lords shifted and exchanged glances between themselves. Thor sighed deeply. “And she has already vanished back through the Waygate, so her whereabouts are, once again, unknown.”

"We must convince the Dwarves to close their Gates," Ægir said, slamming his fist against the polished wood of the map table.

"That is as likely as their convincing Asgard to close the Bifröst," Helblindi said mildly. Ægir glared at him, but it was cautious. The Hrímthursar were still new allies, and the Acting First Scion stood head and shoulders taller than any other in the tent.

“Let us table those concerns for a moment,” Thor said. He had grown in bearing, since assuming the regency of Asgard and taken the weight of a realm over his shoulders. "The next shipment of reinforcements is coming in two days. Helblindi, you are sure the Eldjötnar will stay focused on Gastropnir?"

Helblindi nodded. "It makes the most sense. After Útgard, it is the largest city on Jötunheim. If they hold both, then Thrymheim is sure to fall."

"Landing sites for the relief are scattered around the outskirts of the Gulf," Ægir said. "Heimdall is placing expeditionary platoons to hold key positions until the main contingent breaks from hyperlight. Once the ships unloaded they will be added to the naval blockade." He pulled his hand back from the map.

"It is more than we had yesterday," Thor said. It was becoming a frequently-spoken phrase in this war. "Until then, consider options for increasing our intelligence." He swept from the tent, and Loki trailed in his wake.

Thor was agitated. He walked as though the hound of Náströnd was after him, not Loki; indeed, he seemed not to notice Loki was behind him. He stormed through the base, his eyes settling restlessly on a weapons cache or an einheri polishing his armor before fluttering to the next, always moving, never at peace. Loki imagined he could feel the weight of his thoughts churning. Thor walked, and soon the royal tent came into sight. He threw back the flap and stepped into the gloom beyond, shrouded by enchanted canvas and hidden from prying eyes. Loki followed.

"Asgardians are too small to face Jötnar with these odds," Thor said, apropos of nothing. Loki stood still and listened.

"We are too weak, the Eldjötnar too strong, too many. They have the superior position." He paced, his cape fluttering against the support poles of the tent’s interior. "The Hrímthursar are strong enough--but they are under-equipped, under-supplied, and stretched far too thin."

"That will not always be so," Loki interjected calmly. "Even now Asgardian rations are bolstering morale."

"But weapons? There are no armories left in all the Realms with staves large enough for a hrímthurs to wield. And by the time enough are made it will be too--"

"Thor." 

"--late. We cannot help them the way they need."

"Thor."

He stopped, sucked in a ragged breath. "I may have done something foolish, with this war," he said. "I had thought to strike quickly, like a hammer's blow. Instead I have crushed us both."

Loki kept his expression neutral. He stepped closer, taking up one of Thor's hands, and massaged his fingers until they released from their bloodless clench. "It is but four months since you began," he said, stroking along Thor's palm. "That is not enough to see victory."

"I don't know what to do." Thor's voice threatened a wobble.

"You are looking up at a mountain and seeing all that you have to climb. Look at the next step, and ignore the rest."

Thor rested his forehead against Loki's, framed between Loki's horns. "The next step."

"Yes. Break it down smaller, then you will be able to manage it."

Thor sighed. "Supplies are managed, troops are dispersed, now I just need to establish how to engage the Eldings in a way to counter their advantage, so our troops cease being slaughtered. And how to gain proper intelligence. Our scryers can barely penetrate Jötunheim's atmosphere."

"Let me worry about the scryers," Loki said. "Concentrate on a battle plan."

"I should have had it in place before deploying the Einherjar."

"Yes. You should have. But what's done is done, so now concentrate on making use of what you have." Loki ran his free hand up Thor's bare, muscled arm. Gooseflesh rose against his cool touch, and Loki brushed over the fine hairs as they stood to attention. Thor shivered. Tension ran out of him in a slow trickle.

"I thank the Ancients I have you," he said.

Loki's heart ached. He brushed back the flyaway hairs from Thor's brow, smoothing them back into the tight braid he plaited that morning. "You would be completely lost without me, of course."

"Of course." Thor's eyes closed, and he raised a hand to Loki's waist. They stood like that for countless moments, beneath the creak of the tent, and thoughts came together in Loki's mind. He said nothing; they were young, yet, but he thought he might have answers to their predicament. He said nothing, and let Thor's worries bleed away until new councils and messages and frantic advisors drove them back.

Autumn would come again to Jötunheim, and cool the warmth of summer with frigid southern winds. Asgard would do no less to the Eldjötunn army. Loki would make sure of it.

***

Thor waited until the reinforcements had arrived and been properly deployed before he spoke to Týr. “I must return to Asgard,” he said, spoken in confidence over shared horns of mead. “As ever, we need more money.”

“The plague of war,” Týr replied, with full understanding. “I will hold the army until you return.”

Thor’s relief was visible. He clapped Týr on the shoulder. “Thank you, old friend.” He turned to Loki. “You will accompany me?”

“And miss the opportunity to swelter again? Wouldn’t dream of it.”

It was all of a plan. Loki spoke with Sif later that night, in the mellow light of the royal tent. “The next supply convoy leaves in the morning,” he said. “It will not reach Asgard for a fortnight, which should be just enough time.”

“Peace, Loki,” Thor said from the corner, where he was painstakingly scribbling down notes on troop movements for Týr. Týr was a veteran campaigner, holding several millennia of experience under his belt to Thor’s palty one, and Loki snorted.

“I’ll have peace when you do,” he replied.

Sif laid her hand on Loki’s shoulder. “I have heard, and I will obey,” she said with a wry tone. “It is a good plan. Trust me to do my part.”

Loki let out a fraught breath, and tension fled his body. Sif had proved an unexpected ally in the war; her bloodthirst was countered by a steady, cunning mind. Loki had more than once caught himself thinking of her as a friend. She inclined her head to him, skirting the edge of disrespect for a spouse of the king, but it was as tender a goodbye as Loki could have asked for, as anything _more_ tender would have been anathema to them both. Sif left the tent soundlessly.

The next morning saw him and Thor standing at the landing zone for the Bifröst, and one screaming, hurtling flight through the Void later, they were in Asgard. It was nighttime in the Realm Eternal, the lights of the City gilding the harbor.

It had been four months since Thor had made his declared war, and all of Asgard was still in an uproar. Foundries surged, their fires stoked day and night; artificers and _seiðrkonar_ worked day and night to repair and create weapons for the swelling militia. Steam rose from the stacks around the city, billowing out to cover it in a shifting veil of fog.

The clamor was muted by distance, but even here, in Heimdall’s observatory, Loki could hear the rumble of troop transports as they hove over the water to the edge of the world. Some few went by the Bridge, but most went hyperlight via longship. The flickers of their engines lit up the clouded skies like heat lightning on a summer night.

Any other night and perhaps they would have strolled down the Causeway, but the furious tempest of war raged behind them, and Loki gave no resistance when Thor took him by the waist and flew them over the water on the graces of Mjölnir.

They touched down on Thor’s private balcony, and though they made no official statement of their journey, Frigga was there, waiting for them.

“Welcome home,” she said. She, too, looked tired. “How goes the war?”

Thor’s lips thinned. “Not well,” he said.

Standing here, looking Odin’s wife in the face, Loki could not shy from the suspicion that the Allfather hadn’t been unreasonable in avoiding war with Múspelheim. There was little for it, however. What was done was done.

“Will you see him?” Frigga asked.

“Yes.” Thor sighed heavily, and glanced to Loki. Loki did not care for standing aimlessly about Odin Bölverkr’s bed, but he could no less eschew etiquette when the Allfather was asleep as when he was awake. He nodded, and kept his arm in Thor’s.

The palace was quiet. Frigga led their small procession, and the scant servants they saw in the hall seemed caught by a hush, as though speaking too loud would upset the fallen king. The funereal nature vexed Loki. He would have the man make up his mind to live or die, so he could despair or rejoice accordingly. He waited enough on the battlefield.

Odin was throned even in sleep, draped in cloth-of-gold in a bed of intimidating proportions. Frigga moved to his side and reached--so far it was almost comical--to lay a hand on his brow. Thor let Loki’s arm go and moved to stand opposite. The golden shadows of the bedchamber did well for his coloring, burnishing his hair and deepening the blue of his eyes. Loki hung by the door; this was not his grief. It was enough to be here, in the oppressive presence of his people’s greatest enemy, while his husband wrestled with his feelings.

“Would that I had your wisdom, Father,” Thor murmured, his hand gentle around Odin’s slack fingers.

Loki kept his peace.

***

He was taking the stairs to Gladsheim’s southern promenade when Loki overheard Hoder crying in the well of an oriel window. He slowed, drawn by the helpless gulps of childish distress, and went to investigate. He found the youngest prince coiled in a ball behind the curtains, a broken toy sword in his lap.

"What's this?" Loki asked, leaning in to investigate. "What happened?"

Hoder looked up at him, tragedy written large in his blue eyes, and said, blubbered, "Balder broke Tönn!" He holds up the broken shards of his sword.

"Did he," Loki murmured. He settled himself on the window well across from Hoder. "Why did he do that?"

"Because we were playing 'Einherjar and Fire Giants' and I was winning," Hoder said, his tears forgotten in the midst of his ire. "He broke Tönn because he didn't want to lose to a fire giant."

Loki masked his smile with a thoughtful expression. "That was unjust of him," he said. "Have you told your mother?"

"No." Hoder fiddled with the cracked hilt. "She's busy."

"Good," Loki said, and Hoder jerked his head up in confusion. "That's good, because I have a better idea." He leaned close to Hoder, the plan unfolding even as he spoke. It was perhaps unjust to teach such a thing to a child, but the world was harsh, and better they learn in this manner than on a true battlefield. "You want to get back at him, don't you?"

Hoder's eyes were limpid with hope. "Yes."

"Then this is what we'll do." Loki laid out his plan in simple terms.

Hoder frowned. "But why can't we do it earlier?"

"Because the feast tonight will be filled with people. The point is to do it where everyone can see Balder, but no one sees you," Loki said. "The point is to get Balder back as much as possible."

"Okay." Hoder nodded, a small, shy smile breaking across his face. "I'm very good with my slingshot."

Loki gave a firm nod. "Good. You'll need it. Remember--come find me right after your brother and I open the dance."

"I remember." Hoder's tears had stopped, now, lost in the promise of petty vengeance.

"Now go and dry those tears. There's a party to see to."

He watched Hoder jump down and scamper away, his sorrow forgotten; if only all problems were so easily solved. He turned back to the stairs and continued on his original course.

There were portals discreetly placed throughout the palace, which led to various destinations in the city. It was the Central Market portal Loki sought now, beneath the southern promenade. None would be suspicious of him using this portal; it came out near enough to Cloud’s End that it was the one he used when he didn’t care to bother with hiding his tracks.

It also was convenient to the household of Freyja Njördsdóttir. 

The warmth of spring was settling over Asgard. Bees trundled over the hyacinths and honeysuckle vines, and the scent of damp, loamy earth rose rich in the air. Freyja's garden had been allowed to grow wild, the only sign of cultivation in the number and placement of the plants, and in their good health, than in their pruning. Loki followed the trail to where Freyja knelt, clad in a simple Vanic tunic, planting bulbs in a patch of bare earth beside a sunny embankment.

"I'm sure you've heard by now," she said without looking over shoulder.

Loki stepped over a patch of pink blossoms, sweeping his cloak up so as not to disturb them. "The households of Nóatún are returning home," he replied.

"Father believes the political climate on Asgard too tense for his tastes." Freyja sat up, brushing damp strands of hair off her forehead. "We are to accompany him. It's a business concern, you see. Defend the heart of the company and wait the war out."

"See who the victor is, before you pick sides."

Freyja set the trowel aside. "We are a merchant family. Honor does not buy bread."

"And yet, you are also a warrior."

"For Vanaheim, Loki. Not Asgard." Freyja gazed up at him for a time, her expression inscrutable. She sighed and pushed to her feet. "You would not come here without reason. What can I do for you, Child of Laufey?"

Loki gestured toward a bench, nigh obscured beneath an arbor of climbing wisteria. "Shall we sit?"

As ever, Freyja gave a secretive cat-grin. She led the way to the bench, waited until Loki had arranged the pleats of his kilt before she said, "Out with it, then."

Loki picked off an imaginary puff of lint. "I would borrow your private yacht."

Silence fell and lengthened. Loki felt drunk on the scent of grass, thick as it was in the air. He met Freyja's stern gaze squarely.

"That is not something I give lightly. It took me nine years to customize that ship."

"It is not a request I ask lightly," Loki said. "I would sooner part with all the jewels of Jötunheim than part you from your _Falcon_."

Freyja rose a single brow. "Indeed. All the jewels."

He could not read her expression. He inclined his head to her. "Indeed, my lady."

"Then that is the deal," Freyja said. "I will part with the cutter _Falcon_ , and in return I will accept your share in the Jötunn diamond trade."

Loki stared at her, feeling as though a horse had just kicked him in the chest.

She saw his winded expression, then added, "I will of course consider this fulfillment of your debt to me, as well."

Could he, in good conscience, haggle? Her ship--fast, nimble, and more importantly, untraceable--was undeniably priceless, whereas the proceeds of his diamond contracts capped close to 200 million marks per Jötunn year. The majority of that went to paying his informants, his weregild, and his research grants. It was not a sacrifice easily made.

However, his profits in Asgardian markets were skyrocketing. It was possible he would not miss the contracts as much as he might have.

It was possible.

But to have one of his many debts removed? Loki weighed his need against his resources.

He sat back against the bench and stared over Freyja's meadow. Butterflies swarmed over a thicket of orange flowers. The sun was warm, not yet beating with the full force of summer, but the chill of winter was banished to the mountains until the year came around again.

Loki had not assumed Freyja was his friend, though he had hoped she was invested enough in his interests that she might call herself an ally. The bond of sorcery, if nothing else, might have swayed her. He supposed it was naïve of him to assume even that.

"I agree," he said. "I'll have my solicitor bring up the documents. Have you a notary available?"

Freyja inclined her head. "I do."

"Then I will have the security codes by moonrise tomorrow."

"You are taking it to Jötunheim?" Freyja's smooth façade cracked with surprise.

Loki stood. "I go with my husband," he said. He strode back through the meadow.

***

Loki returned to his chambers to dress for the occasion. Rökva attended him, draping him in a southerner's sweltering robes, and Loki contemplated his plan.

The gala tonight was a fundraiser for the war effort. All the notable families had donated generously already, but this night offered them the chance to show off their generosity to a suitably appreciative audience, and to try and curry favor with the new Regent, for however long he might reign. There were rumors already that this Odinsleep was deeper and more dangerous than any before it. _Odin is old_ , they whispered. _Better to start getting in Thor's good graces while the stakes are lower._

Loki despised them for their fickleness, but he knew that it was simply the way of politics. He himself cultivated an air of mercenary disinterest, the better to mask his true leanings. The battlefield was not limited to soldiers, in Asgard, and Loki had a long way yet to go before his might was acknowledged.

He dressed himself in the ceremonial ensigns of the southern tribes, complete with a cape of raven feathers imported from Asgard. He stood like a baneful spirit in the dancing hall, and carved a fearsome gap through the courtiers to Thor's side. The red streak of warpaint across his eyes and temples gave him a dangerous, feral air, and his horns, blackened for the occasion, served to counterpoint Thor's martial brightness, and remind the revelers the truth beneath their fun.

Thor smirked at him. "Seeking to visit nightmares, tonight?"

"If it helps them empty their pockets faster," Loki replied noncommittally. Thor altered their grip as he led them out onto the dance floor, and Loki followed his lead.

"You remind me of the Valkyrja, when they go on a raid."

"They wear raven feathers and red paint?"

Thor whirled them into the dance. "Some do, though in different form than this. He pulled Loki a little closer and murmured in his ear, "If I think it, others will, as well."

Loki eased back from the chill of Thor's armor against his bare skin. "Should I make the dance a little more memorable?"

"I see no reason why not." Thor's expression was darkly eager. Loki smiled in reply.

He started slowly, sending out an aura of fierce battle-hunger around their spinning forms; then he admixed it with a shadow over the lights, so they darkened. The music grew ominous, as if in reply; Loki would have to make sure the musicians were compensated for their diligence. Thor's brow rose; Loki murmured, without moving his lips, "You will know what to do."

The darkness settled until it was near absolute, the lamps burning steadily but shedding no light; and with a twist of his will summoned the flames from the hearth. Screams arose from the courtiers nearby, and he coaxed the fire to lick at their heels. The living hearthfire rose, and warped, and Loki stood stock-still in the center of the dance floor, Thor standing sentinel before him. His face, and the faces of all the nobles in attendance, were washed in flickering red and orange as the flames drew into the form of an exaggerated fire giant. It took one step forward, leaving fiery footprints to burn away on the marble. A noble lady fainted away, into the arms of her escort. Thor glanced to Loki, but Loki knew only fire, was only the twinned concentrations of dimming the light and stoking the flames, and he had nothing to spare. The puppet of flame roared, and locked its gaze on Thor. It plowed forward through the crowd, snorting sparks and trailing embers, and Loki deepened the aura of fear suffusing the room.

Then Thor moved. He raised his hand, Mjölnir gleaming in the firelight, and struck a mighty blow to the wraith. It howled, raising the hairs on the back of Loki's neck even as he drew the noise out. Thor struck another blow, and Loki loosened the bonds of _seiðr_ holding it together. Hairline fissures shattered out from the hammerstrike, glowing white like superheated metal. Thor struck one more time, and the fire giant vanished in a billow of smoke and an echoing scream. Loki raised the lights in increments.

Chatter arose, and applause followed. Thor looked fierce and angry, his hammer held tight in his grasp, and Loki stood to the side. He saw himself reflected in a hundred eyes: tall, forbidding, cold as the wastes. They made a fine pair.

Money would flow, tonight.

It took the final part of his will-power for Loki to finish the dance. Thor noticed, of course, but he did nothing more than steer them towards an alcove when it was done. He sat Loki down, and no sooner had he vanished to fetch refreshments than Hoder appeared at Loki's side, dressed in embroidered tunic and cape. "Was that you?" he asked, with all the directness of children.

"Yes," he answered.

"I liked it," Hoder said. "Fulla screamed."

Loki felt himself smiling despite his exhaustion. "I'm glad." He caught sight of the slingshot in Hoder's belt. "You are ready for vengeance?"

Hoder nodded frantically.

"Well. Wouldn't want to keep Balder waiting, would we?" He pushed himself to his feet and followed Hoder back through the throng. He withdrew a bag from the folds of his cape. "Take this," he said. "Use these instead of your acorns."

Hoder peered into the bag. "What are they?"

"Pebbes of ice, rounded and smoothed. As long as they are in the bag they will remain frozen, but remove them and they will start to melt. They will melt very quickly."

"So he won't be able to find what I'm hitting him with," Hoder said. 

This boy was remarkable. Loki found he liked him more and more. "Exactly. Now, how will you line up your first shot?"

They stood behind a pillar, the gala spread before them in the prime ballroom. Balder was close at hand, kept near the fringes by his keepers, and Hoder pulled a ball of ice from the bag. He fitted it in the sling, and pulled it back. "Like this," he said, and let fly. 

It was a perfect shot. Skirts and capes whipped past, but the little ball flew true, and struck Balder clean on the back of his head. Loki could hear his yelp even over the noise of the party, and dragged Hoder back behind the shelter of the pillar before he could be seen. "Did I get him?" he asked, and Loki nodded.

"Right here," he said, tapping the same spot on the back of Hoder's head. "You heard him, did you not?"

"Yes!"

"Good. Now remember: not too often, and not from the same place too many times. Join the party on occasion, and he will suspect nothing, unless you choose to reveal yourself."

"Thank you," Hoder said quietly, and Loki rubbed his back.

"It was not so long ago that I, too, had to let darts fly. Whatever I can do for you, Hoder, just ask and I will try to help." He left him there, to the remainder of his scheming, and made his way back around the hall.

Thor met him halfway, leaning against a pillar. He had a crooked smile on his face. "Are you teaching my brothers to fight?"

"I'm teaching them justice," Loki said, caught off-guard.

Thor shifted, offering his arm to Loki's grateful lean. "Justice. Hm. I'd say that was vengeance, not justice."

Loki waved a hand. "When 'fair' and 'just' come to mean the same thing, then I'm sure we'll agree."

"'Thor the Just' has a good ring to it," Thor said musingly.

"And I will stand behind you, and people will call me 'Loki the Fair.' Then, perhaps, we might balance each other out."

Thor snorted. "Come, my fair one, the party demands us." He led them back to the morass of courtiers.

***

By the time they returned to their quarters, Sif was waiting for them.

“I trust you had a comfortable voyage?” Loki asked, shedding his cloak for the relative cool of the naked air.

“I’ve had worse,” Sif answered. She stood and shed her cloak as well. “You are still of a mind to do this?”

“I am. Here, off with your jerkin.”

Sif unfastened her armor and undertunic, and the rest of her clothes short of her smalls. Loki gave her one of his own kilts, only slightly tight across the hips, and she kept her own boots and glaive, though the latter she hung from her belt as Loki did. She stood unabashed, and Loki narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you have a way of binding your bosom further?” he asked. “I can hide it with the rest of the charm, but the less there is to hide the easier it will be.”

She snorted. “Do you have a length of linen? Another kilt like this would do.”

Loki provided, and watched in fascination as she folded the cloth and began to wrap it meticulously around her upper body, periodically testing for tightness. “Hold this in place,” she ordered, and Loki held the end while she prepared for a flat-laying knot. “Thank you.”

“Do all asynjur learn to deal with their bosoms so?” he asked.

“Some, perhaps,” Sif said, adjusting the position of the cloth. “I went as a boy for my early apprenticeship, however, so I had further need of compression than is usual.”

Thor, silent for the duration of their business, shifted uneasily in a corner.

Loki glanced at him, and he saw Sif scowl at him from the corner of his eye. “We are not all princes, my Lord Thor,” she said. “Some of us must fight and make do.” She turned back to Loki. “The wrapping always slipped abominably; is there a way you could make it hold fast?”

“Of course,” Loki replied. He made a score of final adjustments, from the drape of the kilt to the fit of the battle caul over Sif’s hair. Hers was thicker than his own, and more prone to curl; likely no one would notice.

“Now for the charm,” Loki said. He slipped his father’s armband from his arm, and whispered a cantrip over it. He held it out to Sif, just beyond her reach. “This will hold the illusion for as long as it touches your skin,” he said. “Once you take it off, the charm with expire, and it won’t work further.” She held out an expectant hand, but he hesitated. “This is my father’s. Guard it well.”

“As though it were my own father’s,” Sif said solemnly, and Loki gave her the band. The moment she touched it the dusky blue of a Jötunn crept up her fingers, laying clan lines as it went. By the time she slid it into place the illusion was complete, from the tips of her curling horns to the pitted scars on her bare chest.

Two Lokis stood in the room, and despite being author of the artifice, Loki couldn’t help but blink in surprise. From his corner, Thor goggled.

“How do I look?” Sif asked. Her voice was her own; it was fortunate that Loki spoke little, when Thor stood in official capacity.

“Formidable,” Thor answered. He gave a slight bow to Loki, new respect shown behind his eyes. “You are a master at your craft.”

Loki waved the praise away. “This is the easy part,” he said. “Are you both ready to leave?”

Thor and Sif sobered at once, and Loki was struck by how well his looks complemented Thor’s.

“I’m ready,” Sif said. “But Loki, are you sure you would not like backup? There is no small amount of risk in this plan.”

“There is none I would trust but the people in this room, and they are already spoken for,” Loki said. “Do not worry for me. I have wriggled from worse crises than this.” He closed his eyes and _willed_ , and a heartbeat later an impeccable copy of Sif stood in his place, down to the scratches on her pauldron.

This time it was Sif who stood in shocked surprise, and it looked both exaggerated and strange on Loki’s face.

“I will be glad when this venture has seen its end,” Thor muttered.

“Likewise,” Sif said feelingly. Then she shook herself, and held out a badge with the seal of Asgard on it. “This will get you through the shipyard checkpoints,” she said. “The guards should recognize me, but in case they don’t it will allow you access wherever you wish to go. I left a sorrel mare in a stable just beyond the west gate; the ostler has already been paid for his silence.”

“My thanks,” Loki said, taking the badge and settling Sif’s cloak over his shoulders. Thor seemed to go green at the sound of Loki’s voice coming from Sif’s lips; Loki smirked. “And keep Thor from panicking overmuch at the _seiðr_.”

He bade them farewell as they left their chambers, the perfect picture of Asgard’s regent and consort. Loki waited until the sound of their footsteps faded, then went to the passage door hidden behind the chaise in the sitting room. Sif’s footprints through the dust were fresh. Loki followed her path down through the palace to the west gate, smoothing the dust behind him as he went.

The horse was waiting for him, as promised. He spurred her through the night-soaked streets, her shoes striking sparks from the cobblestones. The Port of the City was not the largest in Asgard, but it held the bulk of Asgard’s navy, and was therefore dense with longships bobbing in the high tide. The private wharf was on the far west end of the harbor, away from the noisy business of commerce and war; Loki paid for his horse’s stabling, then strode up the pier to the _Falcon_ ’s berth.

The _Falcon_ was a twin-passenger J-600 Blade-of-Heaven hardtop, understated and high-powered, and pride of the orbital shipyards of Múspelheim. They were popular for their maneuverability and speed, but due to the myriad trade sanctions on Múspellian imports, they were impossible to find in Asgardian markets. That Freyja had one at all was testament to her expatriate status. The hatch slid back as Loki approached, blinking gold at the proximity of its key.

Inside, it was exquisitely appointed. The J-series was specially marketed to non-elding consumers, who didn’t require heat-shielding, but the materials were fire-retardant all the same. There was the faintest hint of Freyja’s woody perfume soaked into the pilot’s seat.

Loki ran through the pre-flight checklist. It wasn’t the first time he had piloted a space-faring longship, but every vessel was different, and it wouldn’t do to run this one into a star out of carelessness. He touched the ignition and the engine hummed to life, soft as a purring kitten.

The water was smooth, barely a two foot swell, as he steered the _Falcon_ from her mooring. The Port Authority granted him permission, and he was away, steering toward the drop-off. The stars ahead spilled like pearls across black velvet, backlit with nebulae and lesser wafts of stellar gases. Loki powered up the ion drives as he rounded the cape, and when he reached the World’s End, kicked them to life. He soared out into the black, trailing streams of water vapor in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Freyja's _Falcon_ is, of course, a reference her falcon cloak in the myths, which Loki borrows several times.
> 
> And yes indeedy, I retold the "death" Balder at the hands of his brother. The conventional version comes mostly from the Poetic and Prose Eddas, but according to Saxo Grammaticus's _Gesta Danorum_ , Høtherus and Balderus were fighting over the favors of a woman, Nanna, and Høtherus ended up killing Balderus in battle. Now you know.


	22. Chapter 22

The approach to Nidavellir was carefully monitored, in the manner of all bureaucracies. Loki broke the water of the scrying glass with an irritated huff and glared at the approaching planet. He would stay in orbit for the next two and a half hours, as decreed by Damakku’s air traffic control, and no amount of bribe or threat could induce them to relent. Beyond, on the far edge of the western horizon, he could see the rays of Nidavellir’s binary suns promising daybreak; the flat disc of Nornheim stood in high orbit above the web of holding patterns, already golden and shining from the sunrise.

It was a sunrise only those in orbit would experience. Captured by the gravitational force of its two suns, Nidavellir was tidally locked, and only one side of the planet saw the light of day. The other was a frozen wasteland, too cold even for a hrímthurs. The twilight city of Damakku straddled the terminator, and Loki scowled down at the Dökkálfar’s capital as it passed.

He didn’t have time for this. Thor would buy him a Jötunn night, and Sif another half-day; ten hours total, Nidavellir time, to convince the Dwarves to renegotiate their long-held business arrangement with the Eldjötnar. He gritted his teeth as the suns flared white and blinding through the viewscreen.

Sitting would gain him nothing, however. The delay was unfortunate, but perhaps he could use the time to his benefit. Loki pushed away from the controls and strode into the lounge. There was a full-length mirror in the corner; he stood before it and readied himself for the magics to come.

When he had finished, an elding youth stood in his place, eyes white-hot and horns curling like a ram’s about the sides of his head. He wore the wicker armor of a noble, bore the battle-tested arms of a high-ranked military officer, and stood with the arrogance of a son of Sinmara.

There was such a one in Sinmara’s court, a bastard runt long-suspected to be the Huntress’s own. Marrying off the genetic throwbacks of the royal line was not the custom in Múspelheim, and so it was the lot of runts to prove themselves however they could. Most failed. Hafli the Hound, however, had not only succeeded--and succeeded viciously--but was suspected to be Sinmara’s closest agent. Loki had never met him in person, but he had seen shimmers of him in the newsfeeds and read certain accounts. He hoped the Dwarves had read those accounts, too.

He paced the narrow confines of the vessel as he waited. He had sent a carefully-worded request for an audience during transit, and received a response with reassuring speed; now his mind turned itself in circles, chewing through his plan of attack until he was half-tempted to bang his forehead against the bulkhead. Loki rarely let himself think of the risks he took; instead, he threw himself at them at breakneck speed and laughed when he came out the other side unscathed.

By the Tree, how he hated waiting. There was nothing to do but consider every pitfall that lay before him.

A quiet chime broke through his burgeoning panic, and Loki lunged for the scrying glass, little more than a sheet of enchanted glass set beside the pilot’s chair, sheened with a layer of water and backed by silver. Loki sat and drew it toward him. He waved to accept the call before he had time to second-guess himself.

An olive-hued Dwarven face appeared on the screen, his beard neatly trimmed and his scowl carefully stowed. “Great Hafli,” he said. “I am Sub-minister Eitri. We were not expecting your arrival so soon.”

Loki spoke through his surprise, lest it betray him. “There has been a change of plans,” he said. “I would speak with Minister Sindri as soon as possible.”

“Of course,” the dwarf said. “I have contacted air traffic control, you may proceed to the Ivaldisson Docks in Damakku. I’m sending a data packet with your flight plan, now.”

“My thanks, Sub-minister Eitri,” Loki said. “You weave the pattern well.” With that he cut the connection. He let out a tense sigh.

Hafli Óskópnason had already arranged to speak with Nidavellir’s ministers, and was expected by them. The extreme luck of the situation prickled against his skin. He entered the flight path into the ship’s Heart and watched through the viewscreen as the dawn vista vanished. The path took them into Nidavellir’s atmosphere, over the ocean of grain swaying in the perpetual wind on the planet’s surface. It was a close flight, close enough for Loki to make out the humped earthenworks of the villages and towns as he sped back toward the terminus and the glittering capital city. Daylight faded, eventide in fast-motion, and soon the spires of Damakku rose high and proud over the plains.

Damakku was known throughout the realms as the “City of Light.” Built upon a broad, featureless plain in the heart of Nidavellir’s grain belt, it rose from the bedrock in a froth of arches and lacy stonework to peak in countless golden domes. And atop each golden dome, at the summit of every tower, cupola, and pinnacle, was a polished mirror, treated so as not to tarnish or scratch in the heavy winds. When custom dictated--precisely halfway along the thirty-six hour cycle of Nidavellir’s “day”--every single one of those mirrors would shift position. At the beginning of the cycle, they would capture the weak sunlight and capture it from mirror to mirror, spreading and magnifying it until it was bright as midday. Then at the peak of the cycle, they would shift back, until finally it grew dark. In this way, the Dwarves had created for themselves cycles of day and night, despite their curse of perpetual twilight. The mirrors flashed and glinted as Loki steered the ship over the city and into the private dock that had been registered under Hafli’s name. A party waited for him at the edge of the platform. 

Loki applied himself to the shutdown sequence with intensity he didn’t feel. His heartbeat quickened, and he fought to keep from flaring out in sheer nerves; it took all his _seiðr_ to protect the delicate hardware from scorching. Heat shimmered in the air about him. He took a final, steadying breath, then got up from his seat.

The air of Nidavellir was dry, and smelled earthy in a way that edged on spicy. Loki strode toward the gathered delegation with a confidence he forced himself to display. The beads of rank that Múspellians wore suspended from their horns clinked with each step, and brushed against his shoulders. He singled out the official who had given him his flightplan.

“Sub-minister Eitri,” he said, giving the gesture of respect due a lesser city official, but one whose practical rank was equivalent to one’s own.

Eitri bowed in the manner of the Dwarves, then gave the appropriate Elding gesture in reply. “Great Hafli, we are honored by your presence,” he said.

“As am I by your welcome. Tell me, will Minister Sindri grant me an audience?”

“The Ministry of the Ways would wish nothing better than to grant your request,” Eitri began, spreading his hands apologetically. “But at this short notice…”

Loki lowered his hand to the hilt of his scimitar. “I understand,” he said. “Perhaps we may continue inside, and you can explain the situation in comfort.” He tucked a raw diamond the size of a sparrow’s egg into the front of Eitri’s sash.

“Of course, Great One,” Eitri said with another bow. “Right this way.” He stepped aside and gestured Loki forward, and though they strode toward the Place of the Alcazans as equals, Loki found himself hard-pressed not to laugh at the way the Dwarves stayed well outside the radius of his heat expenditure. The effect was reminiscent more of an honor guard than two dignitaries of comparable status.

The Place of the Alcazans was a broad boulevard, lancing through the heart of Damakku. On either side stood eight magnificent palaces, each with their own attendant estates; these palaces were the centers of Nidavellir’s government, each housing a High Ministry and its Chief Minister. The Dwarves ruled via an oligarchy of nine, and the ninth palace, set in the exact center of the city, at the culmination of the Place, was the High Ministry of the Craftsmen. Its minister was the most powerful, and his palace the richest.

It was not to this palace that Sub-minister Eitri brought Loki. Rather, it was to the High Ministry of Commerce that they went, the second-largest of the Alcazans, if not the most powerful. And it was not to the Chief Minister he brought him, but to the offices of Sindri, the Minister of the Ways. He led them through the keyhole arches of the main façade and into the cool, shaded interior.

Dwarven craftsmanship was celebrated and coveted all through the Tree. Loki fought to keep his eyes inside his head as he took in the wrought-silver lamps; the ceiling, covered in countless intricate, individually-carved stalactites of plaster; the dizzying geometry of the tilework lining the walls. They passed along cloistered walks overlooking gardens with fantastical fountains, each ringed with mirrors on the rooftops to capture and redirect light for the plants. Loki saw bundles of cloth hung along the eaves; he pointed them out to Eitri, who answered,

“They are to protect the plants from the present light of the terminus. Many offworld blooms need a period of darkness beyond what our mirrors can provide.”

Presently they came to what could only be described as a gatehouse, though it stood at the far end of an unsecured courtyard. Their guard complement had left them at the entrance of the Alcazan, but now, as soon as they passed through this seeming boundary, the remainder of their attendants disappeared as well, until was Eitri and Loki alone. He led them through increasingly private chambers until finally they reached one that looked out upon a small balcony. Rich carpets lined the marble floors, abstract tapestries lined the walls. A low sitting area dominated the center of the room, made of silk cushions arranged about an elaborate silver waterpipe; a breeze fluttered the curtains at the balcony, carrying the sound of a bird whooping in the distance.

“I will consult with Minister Sindri,” Eitri said. “If you will wait here.”

Loki indicated his acquiescence, engrossed in the patterning of the closest tapestry. It was an abstract floral design, repeating with mathematical regularity to create a harmonious, calming effect. He heard the doors close behind him.

Perhaps an hour passed. Maybe two. Loki lost track of time; now that he was in the belly of the Serpent, he found his panic had disappeared in a muting cloud of fatalism. He examined the tapestries, and when that had ceased to distract him, he watched the shadows creep down the walls. He stared at the shadow of a lamp for easily a quarter hour before he realized it wouldn’t move any further; the mirrors had ceased their labors, and this pellucid half-light was the darkest Damakku would ever become.

“Hafli Óskópnason,” a new voice boomed out, startling Loki from his reverie. “What brings you to my Ministry on such short notice?”

Loki turned to see a blocky, stout dwarf, wrapped in silk finery, march into the salon. His hair was iron gray, though his face bore no visible sign of age, and he moved with a strength and vitality any warrior would envy. Loki raised his hand to give him the proper obeisance, but the dwarf, who could be none other than Sindri, waved it aside.

“None of that, none of that. Come, sit. Say your piece.” He settled himself down on one of the cushions and gestured to one on the other side of the waterpipe.

Loki settled himself with all the dignity he could muster, careful to keep from scorching the cloth. “I am here--”

“To renegotiate the contract of access for Múspelheim, I’d wager,” Sindri said. His eyes were flinty. “And I’d be more than willing to do just that, but _you_ are not Hafli Óskópnason.”

Loki froze, then forced his spine to stiffen in outrage. “That is a bold accusation.”

Sindri snorted. “No more bold than to impersonate an elding noble all the way up to my negotiating room. We Dwarves know craftsmanship, Great One. We can recognize a 600-series from a 500-series, and there is no ship on this branch of the Tree that moves quite like Freyja Njördsdóttir’s _Falcon_.” He shifted himself on his cushion. “Now we can play twenty questions, which will make me very cross and likely very late for my next meeting. Or, you can come forth with the integrity you lack, admit yourself, _apologize_ , and then we can carry on negotiating those access rights.”

The only sound was the trickle of water in an unseen fountain and the faint sweep of the curtains in the breeze. Loki considered his situation and conceded the round. He let his body curl back into its own form. The air grew warm against his natural skin, and the low light grew more pleasant to his eyes.

“Twelfth Scion Loki,” Sindri said with satisfaction. “I had my suspicions.”

“You are wiser than your reputation suggests,” Loki replied, with a deep seated bow. “My sincerest apologies for the deception.”

“You’ve a long way to go, lad, if you want to fool the oldest of us politicians. Your success against Odin Allfather was a fluke. Never forget that. The stage of the Realms is cutthroat, and if you don’t learn to research your marks a little better, you’ll find yourself killed. Or worse.”

Loki raised from his bow. “This was a sudden decision,” he said. “I suspected Nidavellir would be more amenable to negotiations on Múspelheim’s access rights with a Múspellian representative than with me.”

“Well, normally we would. But here’s the funny thing about Waygates: their advantage to their owners is not measured by the trade that occurs because of them. It is measured in usage fees and tolls. And, well.” He scratched the back of his head with a regretful expression. “Múspelheim caught us in a bad moment. The Chief Ministers needed money, and they weren’t picky how they got it. They bartered a deal that, given the amount of use the Eldings are getting out of our gates, is hardly fair. Worse, the rest of our network is showing decreased traffic on account of this war you lot are fighting.”

Loki felt a grin spreading across his face. “And because you are honor-bound to uphold your end of the deal, in order to protect the confidence of your clients, you cannot break it.”

“It’s a bind, to be sure,” Sindri said slyly. “Of course, we were fortunate. A representative from Sinmara herself has come to us today to renegotiate the terms of use for the Dwarven Waygates.”

The door creaked, and Loki threw up an illusion before it could open all the way. Eitri appeared, bearing a tray laden with a silver coffee service. He laid it on the floor between Sindri and Loki, then quietly walked out. Sindri waited until the latch clicked before he reached out to pour two cups.

“You’re a quick one,” he said, and handed Loki one of the cups. “He already knows.”

Loki dropped the illusion. “Then he can call it plausible deniability.”

Sindri nodded at him, a pleased smile toying at the corners of his mouth. “You’ll train up well,” he said, half to himself.

“Your approval means a great deal to me,” Loki said, with absolute sincerity. He took a sip of the brew. “Exquisite.”

Sindri took a sip of his own, then set the cup down. “Now,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Now what can I do for Múspelheim?”

“It is quite simple,” Loki said. His heart calmed, and he felt his equanimity return. “I want the war contract dissolved.”

“Dissolved?” Sindri’s brow rose.

“Dissolved,” Loki nodded firmly. “Múspelheim’s access reverts, in toto, to that agreed in the Accord of Surt III.”

Sindri’s gaze was shrewd. “That’ll leave the Elding army damn near stranded on Jötunheim. We would hate to lose loyal customers to yet another Asgardian conquest.”

“Thor is not his father,” Loki said simply. “You have my word on that.”

“Hm.” Sindri ran his fingers over his mustache. “What collateral can you offer, if that turns out not to be the case?”

Loki took a deep, slow breath. “The profits of the sales of Jötunn goods in Asgard.”

Silence settled over the room. Loki took another sip of his coffee.

“You’ve bargained everything you’ve got, haven’t you, lad,” Sindri said softly.

Loki nodded. “I am as invested in the outcome of this war as it is possible for me to be.”

“Hm. Well, I suppose that is collateral enough on its own. I’ll still have you sign a contract, mind.”

“I expected no less.”

The remainder of the meeting went by in a flurry of contracts, first an informal contract of collateral drawn up by Sindri, duplicated by Loki, and signed by both, and then a more exacting, formalized contract to break Múspelheim’s access agreement. That one saw a notary and six other witnesses, and Loki lifted Hafli’s signature from an old Waygate request nearly a century old. The end result was a legally binding document, solid in the letter of the law if not the spirit.

“This’ll create quite a stir in the Gálgvid,” Sindri said, rolling up the contract and tucking into a metal tube for safekeeping.

“I’ll make sure to keep my ear open for gossip,” Loki replied.

Sindri laughed full and long. “Yes, you’ll go far.”

***

Loki had little time to spare for gossip over the next days. Upon Loki’s triumphant return from Nidavellir, Thor brought in all the outflung portions of his troops to camp beside Gastropnir. It was a seemingly idiotic tactic, given the war they were fighting; but Thor was known for his straightforward, sensible battle plans, and this would unnerve their enemies to the extreme.

That was fine. The more unnerved the better, so long as they clumped together too. Loki took one last reconnaissance flight with Sif at his side, no worse the wear for her brief stint as Loki, to take the lay of the land.

The Elding lines were in the exact position they would have hoped for.

Reveille sounded. Einherjar tumbled from their tents for morning inspection. Loki brushed his flyaway hair out of his face, and waited as Thor did the same, belting his hammer and sword about his waist. "I don't want you on the front lines," Loki said quietly, so that none would overhear.

"Loki, we have talked of this."

Loki snorted in frustration. "Yes, and that doesn't change my opinion: removing the Waygates does not altogether neutralize their advantages."

"If it fails, then it fails. And we will regroup and do better the next attack."

"We will not regroup if you die," Loki muttered, but he knew there was no chance of changing Thor's mind. Loki's sleep had been tainted by fearful dreams, though every omen since he had returned to Jötunheim had been favorable; their planned offensive had no guarantee of success, and there was nothing he could say to persuade Thor to caution.

"We Asgardians are a sturdy lot," he invariably said. "We are stronger than we look."

 _So isn't a vial of poison,_ Loki thought. Out loud he said, "I'm standing beside you."

"No," Thor snapped, whirling to glare at him. He raised a finger in Loki's face. "You will stand with the auxiliaries. I will not have you injured."

"Better you than me? Is that it?"

Thor's eyes flashed. He seized Loki's upper arm and dragged him back in the tent. It would do little to muffle the sounds of their argument, but better they make an attempt at discretion, to keep from showing the Regent and his consort arguing on the day of a battle, than to damage morale more than it already was.

"That is exactly it," Thor hissed, his face washed gray by the shadowed light in the tent. "I cannot--" His voice cut off despite himself. He swallowed. "I felt I had died, when I had to leave you. I will not allow it again. I will risk no harm to you."

Thor had only grown more obstinate since they had joined the Army. Loki had found his usual methods of persuasion were fruitless, in the face of Thor's combat-fueled fears. He abandoned them in favor of absolute candor.

"It is no different for me," he snapped. "When you and your Warriors go on a sortie, and I am once more left behind to keep the fires burning, do you not consider my own apprehension? I am a trained warrior, Thor! What if my absence proves the dart that strikes you down?"

"That will not happen."

"Won't it? Týr nearly lost his other hand yesterday!"

"You are not trained as we are trained! You will weaken our line!"

Impotent fury burst through Loki. "The Hrímthursar Infantry fight with you! Why not me?”

"I will hear no more of this," Thor growled. "You will stay here, with the reserves. You will command in my absence. That is final." With that, he strode out of the tent, sending the whole of the wooden frame creaking with the force of his passage. Loki stared after him, his hands clenched at his sides.

" _Hreinnhönd_ ," he spat. 

He sat in the tent as the Einherjar mustered around him. Their shouts stirred his blood, and frustration knotted through him. He summoned balls of solid ice and squeezed them until they crumbled in his hands. The tent walls flapped in the maritime breezes and the tent poles creaked, swaying like a ship over a rolling sea. Loki sat upon his marriage bed until the last sound of the Army had vanished from his ears. It was a long time; he imagined the line of Einherjar snaking over the hills, forming themselves on the other side in the formal entry to battle. The sun had risen past its zenith when at last he could no longer make out the tramp of boots or the clatter of weapons against armor. He stood slowly and strode out the tent.

Týr was in the command tent, as craggy as the first day, his good hand caught up in a sling. He looked up as Loki walked in. He sighed.

"I told him it was foolish to make you stay," he said.

Loki settled himself by the map table. "Then it will be a lesson he will learn through experience. What do I need to know?"

Týr gestured with his stump, toward the bowl of the valley beyond them. "The line is forming here, in plain view of the Elding camp. It's old tactics, upheld by the traditionalists." He scowled, and a shiver ran down Loki's spine.

"He's got the bit between his teeth, hasn't he," he said.

"Aye, he does at that." Týr thumped his prosthesis against the table. He glanced up at Loki. "You going to pull his head out for him, lad?"

Loki hadn't washed off the Jötunn warpaint since Thor declared war. He made sure his daggers were ready at all times. He knew Thor, and he knew Eldjötnar tactics, and he knew the way a desperate thing fought when cornered. Loki stood up straight. "Yes."

"Good. Scouts say this is a good spot for watching. You may have company, but you'll see the battle, and if he gets himself in a pickle, well." He nods to the wrapped bundle in Loki's arms. "At least you'll be able to pull him out."

Loki inclined his head. "My thanks, General."

"Bring him back alive," Týr said. "That's all the thanks I need."

Loki slipped from the tent. The camp was tucked in a shallow dell, sheltered from the trade winds and the scouring blasts off the tundra alike, and a grove of trees stood in the heart of it. The trees grew silver and straight above the height of even the highest Jötunn. The grove was held sacred by several sects in Gastropnir, and there had been an outcry when Asgard's army occupied the area around it. Helblindi had placated them with solemn promises that Thor and his Einherjar would not harm the trees, on pain of their Foremothers' condemnation.

Loki entered this grove now, assured of his privacy. He knelt beneath the swaying branches of an especially noble specimen and let his shoulders slump. It was morning, the watery sunlight pouring through the dusky blue canopy above, and Loki prayed. “Foremothers,” he said, feeling a fool but unable to stop the words, “Watch over him. Strengthen his arm, shelter his luck, and should we win, gentle his fury.” He picked up a leaf, a dark blue crown leaf the size of his hand. Loki brushed along the veins. Then he took out the jam pastry he had saved from his breakfast, wrapped it in the leaf, and laid it at the roots of the tree. “Give me the certainty we will succeed.” The trees creaked gently in the breeze.

A heartbeat later and a shrike sped into the sky, its white and black markings stark against the blue of the trees.

The Plain of Vígríd once more would host the battle. This high up and Loki could see the distant shift of the two armies, the glittering crescent of the Æsir arrayed against the smoldering might of the Eldjötnar. He settled himself into a shallow glide. It would, if he gauged the wind right, carry him straight to Týr's lookout.

The lookout was bundled tight in his cloak when Loki landed beside him. The man startled, grabbing for his sword with wind-chapped hands, and when Loki gave a warning cry, he subsided with a heavy gust of breath.

"Spooking at birds," he muttered to himself. He bundled himself tighter, sparing Loki a baleful glance before looking back to the battle. His face grew drawn. "Not a chance, we have. Look at 'em."

Loki shifted his feet restlessly. His claws clacked against stone, and he half-mantled his wings. This scout was a very young man, kept from the fray no doubt to preserve him from his own foolishness. The boy sighed. “How’m I to win glory if I they won’t let me fight?” Loki gave the scout as incredulous a look as a shrike could manage, then joined him in looking out over the field.

The battle didn’t look especially dire from a distance. Loki watched the line of Æsir inch toward the line of Eldjötnar, and eventually they merged together until he couldn’t distinguish one from the other. Occasionally the flare of a spell or elding flame caught the eye before it dissipated. Loki stood on that rock outcropping, miles from the fight, and cursed himself for being bored.

Then came the hammer to Asgard’s anvil: the Hrímthursar infantry poured over the brow of the hill, having taken this long to circle behind the elding lines. There was another long muddle of shifting, and Loki perked up, for despite the distance, he caught a hint of the excitement: Múspelheim was pulling away. They were retreating, and Loki caught his breath as three Waygates snapped into being in the center of their line of retreat.

Loki watched, his every fiber a line of tension, as the Eldjötunn troops pressed against them. But instead of vanishing in flashes of white, the Gates stood dead before them. Loki gave a triumphant screech, startling the scout behind him.

Nidavellir had kept to their contract. Múspelheim could no longer run away to preserve their army when a fight went poorly.

And this fight was going poorly. Loki launched himself into the sky, winging as fast as he could toward the fray. The closer he came he saw how hard-pressed the eldings were, and how panic and uncertainty in the face of the Waygates’ malfunction had turned an orderly retreat into a mob. He circled above, far beyond the reach of ranged weapons, and caught sight of Thor, spearheading a thrust into the heart of the enemy company, his Warriors Four at his back. Loki saw Idi as well, the clever leader of Múspelheim’s army, surrounded by a force of Hrímthursar. Thor fought through to her, and held his blood-stained hammer wide. Loki wheeled, and he saw the expression on Idi’s face, sorrowful beneath her mask of reserve, and when she cast down her scimitar at Thor’s feet, a cheer went up from the Allied ranks that Loki could hear even this far up. He lent his own voice to the shout, echoing their joy with the hunting scream of a Jötunn shrike.

It was over. Jötunheim was free.

***

A slow summer rain fell on Jötunheim, the day they signed the peace accord. Snowmelt funneled down the sides of Gatropnir’s cliffs, forming curtains of water over every door and window; the covered walkways were empty of passersby. The parties met in the Hall of the Foremothers, a massive Impressionist cathedral carved into the side of the canyon. It stood dark now, the ritual magelights banished in the absence of a ceremony; only those lights the visitors carried with them illuminated the space. The darkness pressed in close, and the effect was one of intimacy.

The agreement was this: Múspelheim would retreat from Jötunheim’s shores, and pay reparations for harm caused. Further, Sinmara would be denied state-level trade contracts from both Asgard and Jötunheim for a period of two hundred years.

“You are not your father,” Idi said, her hand upon her scimitar.

“I am his son,” Thor said, his expression conflicted.

Idi inclined her head in acknowledgement. “We are all our parents’ children. But I am gratified you have not become too much like the Bölverkr, Prince Regent. Would Odin could have been so merciful to our brethren.” She gave a shallow bow to Helblindi.

Hraesvelg, the Corpse-Swallower of the North and most fearsome warlord of Jötunheim, stood arbiter as they signed. “Long may this peace remain,” he said when they stood. A horn-blast sounded in the distance; the war was over.

After, when the parties had dispersed for their lodgings, Idi found Loki where he stood on a public overlook. A waterfall obscured the view, but he stood protected beneath the overhand and watched the blurry forms of the fishing boats far below bobbing in the river.

“[I must thank you],” she said.

Loki looked up at her. Her horns nearly scraped the roof of the boulevard, she was so tall; a thicket of ornaments swung from them. There was no protocol for an introduction such as this. 

“[Why]?” he asked simply.

Idi looked out upon the shifting sheet of water. Her heat charm stood out upon her chest, glowing red. “[If you had not accepted the Allfather’s betrothal contract, Thor would not have been as merciful. We can no longer call him the Angrboda, I think].”

“[I am little enough to thank for simple common sense],” Loki demurred.

“[Do not hide behind false modesty],” Idi said without rancor. “[None but a jötunn could have taught the Jötunn-Killer the error of his ways. You are as much to thank for the leniency of the terms as he is].” She reached up, and untied one of the ornaments on her horns. It was an amber bead, with and insect frozen inside. She held it out to Loki. “[For your sacrifice, and in thanks. Múspelheim could not have withstood harsher reparations].”

Loki bowed, for lack of words. He took the ornament and hung it from his own horn, though what on Idi was no larger than a bead was the size of an egg on him.

Idi left not long after. Loki stared at the water pouring down, pondering the new weight that dragged at his horns. Had his contribution truly been so remarkable? It had been survival, at the time. Nothing more. The suns lowered, and soon the lights of the city glittered through the cascade, refracting and reflecting a muted yellow glow.

“Loki,” a new voice said, and he turned to regard his brother Helblindi. “There’s a feast,” he said. “Why aren’t you there?”

“I could say the same, Acting First Scion,” Loki replied.

Helblindi gave a wry smirk. “I don’t like feasts, very much.”

“Neither do I,” Loki said. “They are full of pompous speeches and stilted conversation.”

Helblindi stepped up beside Loki. He, too, watched the fishing boats, though they were nearly obscured by the shadows of evening. “Kingship is not what I would have expected,” he said. “Mother trained me well, but…” He shrugged. “I do not think there is any way to truly prepare someone for a throne.”

“What of our mother?” Loki asked.

“Word from the healers is that he’s doing far better. We’ll be able to bring him home within the month, though perhaps by longship than the Bifröst. He is not young, anymore.”

“And you will continue as Acting First?” The tumult of water rose a pleasant white noise, Loki found. He felt relaxed, knowing eavesdroppers could not hear.

Helblindi chose his words carefully. “The last time I spoke with our mother was before the war began,” he said. “He was not lucid. The healers have since said he has regained himself, but…”

“But it is dangerous risking the throne to a king who may not remember it.”

“I have spoken with Vafthrúdnir and Hraesvelg, and they both say there is precedent for a king stepping down, should circumstances demand. It is not what I would prefer; kingship is a heavy burden. But if Laufey does not improve it may be necessary.” He looked down briefly before regaining his composure. “He deserves a rest. The past millennium has been difficult.”

Before, these words said to Loki would have been sharp as a blade. Now, they were said to an equal, with the casual respect granted between siblings. Loki found he valued the respect more than the inner triumph his former self would have. Perhaps he, too, had grown.

“How long do you think this treaty will last?” Loki asked. “Not king among the three parties signed it. That alone will be enough to tear it apart.”

Helblindi gave him a lingering glance. “I think it will last,” he said. “The people are tired of war. All peoples. Even the Múspellians. I have heard from Idi’s delegation that sentiments are turning outward, toward the Unknown Stars. A little conquest in a direction without resistance will be welcome to them, I think.”

“And what of Skadi?”

“We have found nothing. Not even a whisper.”

“We must assume he means ill will,” Loki said.

“Of course.”

They stood in companionable silence, watching the final gasps of Jötunheim’s summer. “We should return,” Helblindi finally said.

“Yes,” Loki said. “Back and back and back, unto the beginning of the world.”

“Foremothers will it so,” Helblindi replied, and together they walked to the Governor’s Palace, and the feast within.

***

When Thor and Loki returned to Asgard, it was to fanfares of trumpets. Flower petals rained down over their heads, and streamers danced through the air. They strode hand in hand up the steps to Gladsheim, and Frigga stood upon the threshold to welcome them home. Her face was grave. She took Thor’s hands.

“Your father is dead,” she said quietly.

“When,” Thor choked out, his eyes wide.

“Yesterday, at the last bell.”

They had been negotiating the dispensation of Múspelheim’s army. Loki had stood behind Thor’s shoulder and watched as the Eldjötunn army filed, company by company, through Gastropnir’s Waygates back to Múspelheim.

And Odin had died as that happened. Loki kept his face blank of the hilarity filling him. This was a time for grieving for Thor, and his husband would not benefit from having his father’s memory desecrated by Loki’s enmity.

Petals drifted past their feet, streamers snapped in the wind and caught the eye. Thor bowed his head. Frigga raised her own. “The king is dead!” she called, her voice carrying to all corners of the City. “Long live the king!”

Trumpets sounded, and Loki took Thor’s hand. 

***

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all, folks! If you are so inclined you can reblog on [tumblr](http://kaasknot.tumblr.com/post/138673193534/concubine-kaasknot-archive-of-our-own); if not, hope you enjoyed reading :)


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